

— tnr-- . 



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THE OLD PINE. 



Dartmouth Sketches. 

SELECTED FROM THE UNDERGRADUATE 

PUBLICATIONS OF DARTMOUTH 

COLLEGE. 



G. C. Seldex '93, Liter anj Editor. 
G. G. FuRNEL '93, Business Editor. 



Ac 



CONCORD, N. H.: 

Republican Press Association, 

1892. 







cri 



PREFACE 



In this volume we have endeavored to collect a 
few sketches from the pens of Dartmouth under 
graduates, which seemed to us worthy of preserva- 
tion. Of necessity many have been omitted w^hich 
might well have been included ; very likely some 
have been included which might have been omit- 
ted. Much of our college literary work has been 
dry and prosy, especially in past years; much of it 
has been of only temporary interest; some of it has 
a real literary and artistic value. We hope that 
the sketches in this collection will be found to 
belong to the latter class. 

We are under great obligation to Prof C. F. 
Richardson for his assistance and encouragement. 

G. C. Selden. 

Hanover, November 23, 1892. 



INTRODUCTION. 



To Dartmouth College, according to President 
Thwing of Western Keserve University, belongs 
the lionor due to the pioneer in the history of 
American collegiate periodicals. He says in the 
chapter on journalism, in his '' American Colleges, 
their Students and Work": "It was a hundred 
and ten years after the first newspaper was pub- 
lished in America that, as far as I can discover, 
the first college journal appeared. In 1800 the 
Dartmouth students issued a paper called The 
Gazette^ which is chiefly memorable as containing, 
in 1802-3, numerous articles by Daniel Webster, 
then a graduate of one year's standing. They 
were signed "Icarus," a pseudonym at the time 
unacknowledged, but which a few years later Mr. 
Webster confessed belonged to himself." 

This Dartmouth Gazette, "published by Moses 
Davis, on College Plain, opposite Hanover Book- 
store," was not, strictly speaking, an undergrad- 
uate periodical as we now know the term. It bore 
as its motto: 

" Here range the world— explore the dense and rare; 
And view all nature in your elbow chair; " 



6 INTRODUCTION, 

and it contained such political, personal, legal, and 
miscellaneous news, from home and abroad, as the 
weeklies of the day were accustomed to print in 
their scanty pages. But the doings of the officers 
and students of the college were given a prominent 
place; academic pens helped fill the columns of 
the paper; and the very fact that the town existed 
for the college, in a sense not true at Cambridge, 
New Haven, Princeton, or Williamsburg, made 
the "Dartmouth" of the title a very intelligible 
and warrantable term. The journal had a reason- 
ably prolonged existence; by 1814 it had increased 
its size and become the Dartmouth Gazette and 
Grafton and Cods Advertiser, Charles Spear being 
its printer and editor. 

Interesting as this priority may be, the Dart- 
mouth claim can be pushed still farther back. 
There lies before me, as I write. The Eagle or 
Dartmouth Centinel, volume 1, number 11, for 
Monday, September 30, 1793, " Hanover (Xew- 
hampshire,) printed and published at the North- 
west Corner of College Square, by Josiah Dun- 
ham." A later issue is that of January 4, 1796, 
the academic character of which is sufficiently 
attested by its foot-note: "Edited by Josiah 
Dunham, and Printed at the Academy, by Dvm- 
liam and True." Anything printed at an academy 
certainly has an educational stamp. This Benja- 
min True, in 1798, was the printer of the first 
edition of the " Memoirs of Stephen Burroughs," 
— unquestionably the first bound book issued in 
Hanover, a volume so scarce that I know of but a 



INTRODUCTION. ^ 

unique specimen. These old papers afford many 
opportunities for interesting citations, from the 
freshly printed '' Declaration of the Rights of 
Man, and of the Citizen," of the French National 
Convention in 1793, to advertisements of runaway 
apprentices. 

Our undergraduate literature proper begins 
with the first series of The Dartmouth, 1839-'42, 
an eminently respectable but not wholly readable 
monthly. Revived as a magazine in 1867, and 
later transformed into the newspaper we now 
know, The Dartmouth has gradually taken to itself 
the department of college news, leaving literature 
to its friendly rival. The Dartmouth Literary 
Monthly, started in 1886. The ^^gis, the other 
undergraduate issue, began in 1858 as a four-page 
and fi\ e-cent sheet, containing little more than 
society catalogues; it was published three times a 
year. Prior to its appearance came the similar 
Dartmouth Index, which started its career in 1851 
and apparently closed it in 1853; and the Dart- 
mouth Phoenix of 1855-58. No other ephemeral 
sheet emanating from the ''college plain" deserves 
mention save The Anvil, which owed its existence 
to the journalistic faculty of a member of the class 
of '73. 

As one looks back on the earlier undergraduate 
magazines of this or other colleges, their contents 
often seem (even to their writers) somewhat over- 
ambitious, or heavy, or imitative. Should a con- 
tributor to The Dartmouth of 1839 take up a cur- 
rent issue of a college periodical, he might think 



5 INTRODUCTION. 

it had lost somewhat of dignity. Punch once 
represented Gladstone and Disraeli, back to back 
at a bookseller's counter, each reading the other's 
new volume. "Prosy," hummed Disraeli, as he 
turned the leaves of " Juventus Mundi; " "flip- 
pant," exclaimed the Grand Old Man, as he tossed 
"Lothair" aside. If the later work is sometimes 
flippant, it is seldom prosy; indeed, as a pretty 
constant scribbler in my undergraduate days, I 
can clearly perceive the fact that the verse and 
stories and sketches and editorials of our two 
periodicals seem much better, in thought and in 
art, than those of 1867-71. It is wiser to attain a 
manifest success on the college campus than to 
try to climb an Alp and so get a sorry tumble. 

But the excellence of the present collection must 
be proved by its reading, not by any preliminary 
eulogium. Not a few of the sketches, I am sure, 
will seem to others, as to myself, to show some- 
thing more than literary promise, — namely, some 
degree of literary attainment. 

Charles F. Richardson. 



DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 



PEDAGOGRAPHY. 

CHAPTER I. 

The guardians of our honored institution have 
shown sound wisdom in allowing us three months 
of the year in which to exert ourselves in active 
life, and learn the science of human character and 
society, which the mere book student must forever 
be ignorant of, and without which the most splen- 
did acquirements are nearly valueless. Allien I 
first started on an expedition of this kind, it 
seemed a huge undertaking. I had been told of 
the responsibility and influence of a teacher in 
language so glowing and impressive that my heart 
utterly misgave me when I had bestowed myself in 
the stage-coach, and felt that the irretrievable step 
had been taken, and I must in a few days incur all 
the trials and perplexities of a village pedagogue. 
Cape Cod was not my destination — it is only the 
favored few who may luxuriate in that region of 
shell-fish and sorrel ringlets, — but a secluded town 
in the Granite state. It shall be nameless, for I 
am sure it deserves a more euphonious name than 
1* 



10 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

it bears, albeit, it is one of the roughest nooks in 
tlie most uni)roinising portion of New Hampshire, 
where tlie jolly stage-man ever repeats the thread- 
bare joke of the grinding down of sheep's noses, 
a joke still acceptable, old as it is, to the journey- 
worn and tedium-sick traveller in a stage-coach. 

TVell, after the average amount of jolting and 
concussion, interspersed, for variety, with three 
several upsettings of the coach, to the serious detri- 
ment of the superior extremity of one of my facial 
organs (why need I particularize — must I confess 
to the world that I have an awkward, long nose?) I 
arrived in safety at the tavern, near the scene of 
my future duties. Straightening my legs with the 
appropriate dignity befitting my ncAV relation to 
society, and planting myself philosophically before 
the generous fire, I pulled a dirty half of a letter 
from my pocket, and refreshed my memory anew 
witli the stipulations and directions of the school 
committee. 

"You will be anticepated to board rownd: — we 
pay twelve dollers a month if the teecher sutes — 
you will begin to board at Squier Horncomb's, who 
is a verry respecterbel f amaly ; then you must board 
afterwards in all the best famelys in the destrict 
simultaneously. We don't want no flogin' in 
scool, only w^e want good ordir : you must pay 
for all the winder glass that is broke if you carn't 
find out who it is." 

The schedule was all perfectly plain and the 
requirements very obvious and reasonable, except 
the last. That, evidently, must be limited in some 



PEDAGOGRAPHY. I 1 

way. What! must I bear the expense of all the 
''winder glass" that might be broken in the dis- 
trict by wind, hail, roguish boys, or other provi- 
dential calamities ? If the committee are so 
unreasonable as that, thought I, I'll congregate 
them and bring them to their reason by reading a 
chapter of Wayland's Limitations of Human Re- 
sponsibility. My cloud of perplexity was soon 
dissipated by the summons of mine host to the 
dining-room, and I soon found that more real 
courage can be extracted from a piece of beef- 
steak than all the philosophy of the world from 
Plato down. Let no man hope to achieve a reso- 
lute deed on an empty stomach. 

After dinner Squire Horncomb's house was 
pointed out to me, and I determined to reconnoi- 
tre and get through with the preliminaries as soon 
as possible. The squire's residence was a neat, 
well-proportioned dwelling enough, with no very 
noticeable exhibition of taste about it, but a tidy, 
comfortable aspect. I knocked; the door was 
opened by a miss of sixteen, with an exceedingly 
inauspicious phiz, — square, freckled, with one eye 
slightly asquint, and a pucker of affected gentility 
drawing the thick lips into an awful contortion. 
I inquired, in as pleasant a tone as I could assume 
under these circumstances, for Mr. Horncomb. 

" Squire Horncomb is not at home," she replied, 
"but please to walk in, if you please. Please, if 
you're the schoolmaster, sir, please to — please to 
come in, sir, if you please." 

" Thank you," said I, and walked in, not much 



12 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES, 

pleased, indeed, but on the contrary, very anxious 
to learn whether all the inmates were as beautiful 
and accomplished as Miss Sylphiana, for this appro- 
priate cognomen I afterward learned had been 
given her by her doting parents. I was received 
with no small pomp and ceremony by the six elder 
sisters of Sylphiana, who were all clad in their gay- 
est dresses and sweetest graces for this special and 
momentous occasion. I evidently made a w^onder- 
ful impression upon them all, for nothing could 
excel their awkward attempts at compliment and 
refined conversation. I am a modest young man, 
very; and you can but imi^erfectly imagine my 
confusion while the entire seven were practising 
their captivations upon me. I was overwhelmed 
with attention. Such a flood of simpering frip- 
pery and sentimental nonsense I had never before 
encountered, and I was heartily thankful when the 
time allowed me to bid the seven Misses Horncomb 
good-night and retire. 

On Monday, the eventful — but I have not room 
here for the whole description! Hadn't it better 
be introduced into the next chapter? I wish I 
could tell my story, reader, in fewer words, don't 
you ? But a mind so prolific, yoii know, is not to 
be cramped and fettered by rules and formalities. 
If you are dissatisfied, fastidious reader, continue 
so: — it can't be helped — I '11 seek other hearers. 

" I will converse with unrespective boys, 
Or iron-witted fools. None are for me 
That look into me with suspicious eyes." 

J. E. Hood 'Jfl. 



PUMPKINYILLE AND ME. 



THE SQUIKE. 

The Squire is the only man in Pumpkinville who 
makes any pretensions to gentility, which chiefly 
consists in a carpet for the parlor, and the daily 
reading his newspaper in the sitting-room instead 
of the kitchen. He lives in a two-story, unpainted 
liouse with green blinds. Two elm trees guard 
the front door, w^hich is seldom opened except on 
Sundays, wdien the squire, his wife, and daughter, 
dressed in their best, are seen to issue, invariably, 
from it precisely as the bell begins to toll. Like 
farmer Darby, he keeps a hoss and shay. He takes 
the weekly Mercury from a neighboring town, 
exercises the office of justice of the peace, is first 
selectman, represents Pumpkinville yearly in the 
general court, and is the dispenser of political, as 
the parson is of heavenly, wisdom to the indwellers 
of Pumpkinville. But what I am more particu- 
larly coming at is 

THE SQUIEE'S DAUGHTER, 

the charming Prudence. Yes, Prudence is a 
charming woman. She does know how to knit and 
sew, and more, to make butter and cheese, pies 



14 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

and puddings, to wash and to iron. Whoso mar- 
ries her will have a notable housewife. Her liter- 
ary attainments, indeed, are not great, not extend- 
ing beyond the Bible and catechism, Pilgrim's 
Progress, and a few tracts. She has no sickly sen- 
timentality: her husband will never come home 
on a cold morning with a craving stomach and find 
instead of the hot breakfast he was expecting, a 
cheerless meal of bones, cold potatoes, and dry 
bread, and Prudence herself sitting in the ashes 
weeping over the last new novel, with uncombed 
hair, unpinned gown, while dirt and disorder fill 
the house. 

How smartly I used to dress myself on Sunday 
morning for her bright black eyes I How much 
tallow and rubbing did I expend on my cowhide 
shoes ! And then, having washed my face and 
combed my hair, I took from my little box, where 
I kept them snugly stowed, my cotton trousers 
striped with pink and white, my yellow waistcoat; 
and all else being accomplished, lastly I neatly 
adjusted my little wool hat, and, walking straight 
by the Sciuire's in all my splendor, with only a side 
glance towards the house to see if Prudence was 
looking out of the window, took my station by the 
meeting-house door to watch her approach. How 
longingly I gazed at the lovely girl as she trij)ped 
modestly by the side of her father and mother, 
dressed in her red calico gown, white vandyke, 
black morocco shoes, white stockings, and little 
straw bonnet lined with pink silk and artificial 
flow^ers. Ah! Obadiah Pollywog, can such a prize 



PUMPKINVILLE AND ME, 1 5 

be yours? It may be so. Some day, perhaps, we 
may dwell lovingly together in a remote and ver- 
dant valley in a white cottage, leaving the great 
world to swing around without us. Before our 
cottage we will have a grass plat enclosed with a 
neat white fence, in which shall be green trees and 
rose and lilac bushes ; while honeysuckle and 
woodbine shall creep up the walls of the cottage, 
overshadowing the windows and defying the heat 
of old Sol. Here, at the close of a summer's day, 
when the setting sun sheds a mellow light through 
the green foliage, after the cows are milked, the 
pigs fed, and the hens gone to roost, will we sit 
contentedly together, watching the innocent sports 
of our — but stop, Obadiah Pollywog ! Whither art 
thou wandering ? Surely thou hast been dream- 
ing, — the bell now calls to recitation ; doubtful, is 
it, whether thou canst discourse as fluently on 
Stewart as on Prudence. 

Anon., '43. 



THE DAKTMOUTH HALL GHOST. 



One evening near the commencement of the pres- 
ent century a singular company was assembled in 
one of the rooms of the upper story of Dartmouth 
hall. It was an uncomfortable night. The driving 
snow whirled fiercely against the rattling windows, 
the roaring wind rushed in fitful gusts over the 
tops of the chimneys and across the buried fences, 
while the gaunt trees gesticulated grimly with 
their frozen branches. The unlucky wight that 
was out of doors fought the heaping drifts with 
difficulty, and eagerly sought house-room again. 
The fire hardly availed to keep the cold out from 
the cracks of the doors, and every loose shingle 
and clapboard let little snowy gusts through its 
chinks. Hanover was cold and uncomfortable, 
and, from the frozen river to the snow-capi^ed old 
pine which then stood alone upon Observatory hill, 
everything presented a picture of gloom and dis- 
comfort. Under these circumstances it was not 
unnatural for students to leave their own rooms 
and by a combination of talent to endeavor to drive 
away the chilly loneliness which could not be exor- 
cised in solitude. We will venture to say that a 
more dare-devil crowd never assembled in these 



THE DARTMOUTH HALL GHOST. IJ 

college rooms. Out of the small number of colle- 
gians in those days, these were the very wildest; 
their scrapes were as innumerable as their success 
was striking; and although the half dozen scape- 
graces became noted in the pulpit, the court, and 
the capitol, at that time there was no height of 
folly to which they would not aspire. 

But their success in killing time was not great at 
the present emergency. In the corner lay a heap 
of the antiquated text-books of that time; tobacco 
liad been thrown aside in dis(;ust, and even very 
liberal potations of the very best old liquors which 
that age of pure rum could afford, had not served 
to raise the spirits of the company to a very hilari- 
ous pitch. Meanwhile the snow-storm roared more 
loudly, the wind blew hoarser, and a brick or two 
fell with a heavy thud upon the roof, blown bare 
in spots. 

At length one of the number broke the long and 
gloomy silence with a good round cavalier oath, 
which served at least to relieve the monotony and 
attract the attention of his companions. This 
Flemish obtestation was followed by a profanely- 
put proposition, which instantly aroused every- 
body to the strictest attention, being no less than 
a plan to summon up for the edification of the 
company, that august personage, Satan himself. 
Among the collected students were two or three 
first-class chemists; and as no one was very san- 
guine of success, naturally the plan met with 
favor. One or two dust-covered books on the 
black art were smuggled from the scanty library 



1 8 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

which the college could then boast; drugs and 
powders and mortars were hastily procured, and 
the amateur necromancers went to work with a 
will, fortifying themselves all round by an extra 
drink of good old ISTew England rum. 

The youngest, a poor innocent freshman, whose 
ignorance was bliss, read aloud from the time- 
worn volume the list of ingredients; the rest has- 
tily prepared them, and soon the room was filled 
with smoke and a lurid glare which strangely con- 
trasted with the white snow outside the window. 
Macbeth' s caldron was rivalled by the kettle which 
seethed in the fire-place of these collegians; a 
strange earthy odor pervaded the apartment, and 
one of the students, who had fainted from a too 
long standing over the noxious ingredients, was 
laid away to recover at his leisure. For a half 
hour, the length of time stipulated by the ancient 
tome, they sat in waiting, employing the interven- 
ing time in jesting speculations as to the success of 
their undertaking. At last they gave up their 
interest, and, half dozing in their chairs, were 
about to break up and disperse to their several 
rooms, to bury themselves beneath the bed clothes 
and shiver through the rest of the night, consoling 
themselves with the anticipation of chapel at half 
past five. Suddenly a slight explosion was heard; 
a dense sulphurous smoke arose; the half blinded 
students jumped from their chairs, and were hor- 
rified to see a small, wizen-faced man standing in 
the middle of the floor. On his forehead were two 
small horns, his feet were unmistakably cloven, 



THE DARTMOUTH HALL GHOST. 1 9 

and a slender barbed tail curved gracefully around 
his left leg. Kothing except the gleam of his eyes, 
however, seemed superhuman ; but they shone 
with a sort of translucent flame truly hideous. 
The students quaked. Here was indeed the devil 
they had been summoning ; their knees shook 
together, their arms were powerless, and their 
eyes were riveted against their will upon the 
unearthly visitant. At last courage was in a meas- 
ure restored. Upon his head was hurled a shower 
of grammars and lexicons; a big Greek dictionary, 
a Livy, a Horace, a Euclid, half a dozen bottles, a 
mortar and a j)estle, and six or eight chairs were 
thrown in desperation against him, but his Satanic 
majesty deftly dodged them all. What was to be 
done? Here was a slave, but how to get rid of 
him was the question. Had not the demon seemed 
even more alarmed than the students, the case 
would have been serious. The leaves of the necro- 
mancer's book were hurriedly turned in a futile 
search for the recipe for driving away devils when 
once raised. 

Six terror-struck students, a diabolical odor of 
chemicals, and a genuine demon in the middle of 
the room — what was to be done with so mixed-up 
a concatenation ? Pluto, Apollyon, or whatever 
you may call him, disrelishing his new masters and 
his new quarters, and in vain endeavoring to rejoin 
his more congenial sphere, suddenly kicked over 
the kettle, broke the table in his frantic efforts 
at escape, and burst with a crash through the 
window. 



20 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

This is the legend as we have it. N'ext day the 
storm was over, and the sun shone brightly over 
the snowy hills and the white-crowned forests. 
On that day six students were suspended for a 
drunken, disorderly row in Dartmouth hall, in 
which they had smashed up furniture and thrown 
a chair through the window. But little did the 
old president know of the facts in the case as they 
really were. In proof of this story, if any proof is 
needed, on some dark and stormy night you can 
still see a wan white ghost flit spectr.illy about the 
college buildings ; occasionally the half-exorcised 
Dartmouth demon steals chickens from neighbor- 
ing roosts ; once in a w^hile he cuts up capers in 
chapel, and he is fond of marching in disguise in 
sheeted processions through the town. Ever since 
that memorable night, when the horned imp so 
suddenly appeared among the terrified students, 
the horn has been the sacred emblem of Dart- 
mouth, and every term two or three saturnalian 
dances are still held in the third story of Dart- 
mouth hall, in commemoration of the great event 
which there occurred years ago. 

A)wn.^ ''71, 




RICHARD HOVEY '85. 



THE GEISTIUS OF TOBACCO. 



I had been reading "The Tempest" — and smok- 
ing. The book lay open at the last page, on my 
knee, as I was lying on the lounge in my study ^ 
bathed in the cool breeze that rustled the leaves 
of the orange tree that over-arches my win- 
dow, — weirdly, mysteriously. There was some- 
thing drowsy in the atmosphere, and although I 
cannot remember it, I must have dropped off to 
sleep in dreaming dozily of the "tricksy sprite" 
whom Prospero released from the cloven pine. At 
any rate what happened was much too strange to 
have really occurred. So for convenience's sake 
we will say that I fell asleep. 

"While I nodded, nearly" or quite "napping, 
suddenly there came a tapping" of the faintest 
kind, as if some diminutive insect were trying to 
obtain entrance in the same manner as the " stately 
raven" of Poe. Not "opening wide the shutter," 
however, but remaining snugly on my lounge, I 
was suddenly aware of a presence on my face — 
something that felt like a flower — and looking 
down I saw a queer little shape, about an inch 
long, sitting cross-legged like a Turk upon the 
very tip of my nose. How he got into the room so 



22 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

quietly I do not know. Perhaps on account of his 
diminutive size he had only to open the door the 
breadth of a hair, which infinitesimal quantity I 
might easily have failed to notice. Perhaps he 
came through the key-hole. Perhaps by virtue of 
his spiritual nature (for if he was not a goblin I 
never saw one) he passed through the door, wood 
and all. No matter how he got in, there he was, 
looking at me with a merry, mischievous smile, as 
though he were the veritable Puck. He was 
dressed sadly out of style, wearing in fact a doub- 
let and hose, a bell-crowned hat, and shoes with 
long peaked toes. At his side hung a miniature 
rapier, excellently suited for those duels with 
gnats and glow-worms which I have no doubt my 
little friend (he looked so jolly and friendly I can- 
not help calling him so) was in the habit of fight- 
ing. In his mouth was a meerschaum pipe, from 
whose tiny bowl arose perpetual curls of bluish 
smoke, while ever and anon he would blow a little 
white stream from his mouth. 

"I would I were a Prospero," I thought, "and 
this my Ariel. He'd be a fine companion, too, 
with his little pipe. I don't think I should be 
content now with an attendant sprite who did not 
smoke. There is something so sociable about it," 
and I laughed to see the little fellow puff. This 
was unfortunate, as it nearly upset him. 

"Look out!" he ejaculated. Then, righting 
himself and with a ridiculous frown, "You had 
better be careful, young man." Another puff, and 
a genial smile spread all over his face, as he said, 



THE GENIUS OF TOBACCO. 23 

''There, I had a set speech all memorized and 
ready to deliver and you have knocked the whole 
thing out of my head v^ith your unmannerly roar. 
Don't do it again. Smile as much as you please, 
but don't laugh." And he beamed on me as radi- 
antly as a star. "Well, as I have forgotten my 
piece I shall have to extemporize one. I am the 
genius of tobacco. I am the king of a vast num- 
ber of similar sprites, who w^atch over the planta- 
tions of tobacco, and war with the enemies who 
would destroy it. We dally with the hot winds of 
the South and rock and swing in flower bells all 
day long, when we are not at battle with our foes. 
The birds of the air are our horses. Yon orange 
tree, whose blossoms throw kisses to you, is at 
once my stable and my palace, and that scarlet 
tanager there is my favorite steed. Wouldn't you 
like to be introduced to my wife ? " 

I expressed my delight at this proposition, and 
the royal goblin uncrossed his legs and vanished 
through the open window, thus, perhaps, elucidat- 
ing the mystery of his entrance. "Ere the levi- 
athan could have swum a league" he returned 
with his queen, a beautiful little brunette with 
passionate Southern eyes that yet had a merry 
twinkle in them so that they were not so different 
from the king's roguish pair as they might have 
been. Her dress was the exact counterpart of the 
king's, save that instead of a rapier she carried a 
wand of rosewood tipped with gold. 

Noting my curious glances at liis wife's apparel, 
the king said, "Yes, our women are all Kosalinds, 



24 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

save that they are not afraid of having their 
Orlandos see their doublets and hose." After say- 
ing this, he broke into a laugh that shook his 
whole frame. 

"Do the — the lady-goblins all smoke, too?" I 
inquired, with some hesitation. 

" Oh, yes ! cigarettes," said the queen, leaping 
up on my face and deftly and fantastically putting 
one toe in the corner of my eye. "See. Watch 
me rolling them." Whereupon she pulled from 
her belt a package of cigarette papers that looked 
not much too large for one of Milton's "motes 
that people the sunbeams," and from a pocket on 
her breast drew a richly ornamented green tobacco- 
pouch which glittered like an emerald. In less 
time than it takes a humming-bird to flash across 
your sight and vanish, she had rolled a dainty 
cigarette and was blowing a thin wreath of ringed 
smoke into my eyes. 

"My palace is so near," said the king, "tliat 
I'll come in and see you again, for I think you're 
a good fellow, if you are rather quiet. I only wish 
you'd talk more." Then taking a little silver 
bugle from his neck and winding it, he continued, 
" I shall appoint ten of my subjects to wait upon 
your pipe." 

At this I heard a faint fantastic melody, welling 
up through the floor and pouring in at the win- 
dows. I gradually lost consciousness of the pres- 
ence of the regal couple and surrendered myself 
wholly to the influence of the mystic music, which 
finally lulled me into oblivion. 



THE GENIUS OF TOBACCO. 25 

On awaking, I found myself lying at full length 
on my lounge, my pipe and book both fallen to 
the floor, and the orange-blossoms at my win- 
dow nodding at me as though possessed of some 
delightful secret. 

Bichard Hoveij, ^85. 



KUTH. 



I remember well when first I became aawre that 
my thoughts and impulses were drifting away 
from Ruth, whose companionship had so long 
been to me a delicious oasis in the hot and dusty 
city, w^liose face had been with me on my hurried 
journeys for scraps of metropolitan news, whose 
low voice had filled my ears with music in the 
clang and discord of the noisy press-room. She had 
seemed to me the embodiment of all that I ought 
to look for in the world. Her simple dresses of 
gray and brown had been to my eyes the per- 
fection of art, while a little flame of unwonted rib- 
bon would command unstinted admiration from 
me, and bring even a more hilarious burst of 
music from the yellow songster caged near her, — 
happy fellow! Once she had sent her smooth, 
dark hair showering and rippling down over her 
shoulders, and I had taken a long, beautiful 
strand, with timid fingers, and w^ound it in per- 
fumed ropes over my face, declaring that thus 
I would be bound always, — I, as prosaic and 
common-place a young fellow, w^here my pro- 
fession was concerned, as one could well find. Ah ! 
what follies do we all commit outside of business 
hours ! 




W. D. QUINT '87. 



RUTH. 27 

It was when we went to the opera — Ruth and I — 
that I first found myself discontentedly testing the 
strength of the bond that held us together. Not 
that the huge, glittering chandeliers, the sensu- 
ously lovely decorations, or the brilliantly dressed 
throng made her any the less to me: as I saw 
all these I only clasped her hand the closer: 
but when the great crimson curtain rose I knew 
that trouble was to come, for there, half kneeling 
before a rude cross by a country roadside, was a 
girl singing the opening andante of her part. I 
did not look at her at first : I sat and let myself be 
filled with the wonderful, throbbing tones of the 
sweetest voice I had ever heard. The clarinets 
and violins crooned a far-off accompaniment till 
the prayer was ended: suddenly the trombones 
blared and the kettle-drums crashed as a troop of 
infantry came marching down the road past the 
crucifix. Then I saw a face that made my blood 
grow hot; I hardly dared breathe for fear that its 
loveliness might vanish. The girl beside me was 
as if she had never been. It was cruel, but we 
cannot chain our fancies; we cannot say to the 
heart, "Do this," and expect to be obeyed. 

The rest of the performance Avas made up of 
feverish waiting when my beautiful heroine was 
not on the stage, and of unresisted intoxication 
when her glorious voice came to my ears once 
more. Toward the close I felt a hand upon my 
arm. I turned impatiently: it Avas Ruth. I had 
forgotten her. "Let us go home," she said, in a 
voice that I now remember to have been troubled 



28 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

and full of pleading. I arose meclianically and led 
her out into the open air, and silently we walked 
to her home, where I left her as one would leave a 
sister. It was not because my manhood rebelled 
against hypocrisy — I made no analysis of my 
emotions — but because I simply forgot that we 
had been near to each other in the days gone by. 

Can old love be annihilated in a single night by 
a voice and a face? Why not? A compass needle 
will render true obedience to a magnet until a 
stronger one is brought near; then it leaps to 
follow its new conqueror. So with love. Both 
obey changeless laws. Why do we attempt to 
classify men with our senseless labels of "true" 
or "false," when we ^nd them merely working out 
immutable principles ? 

Of how I came to meet the woman who had 
enthralled me, and how I pressed the acquaintance 
with all the ardor of a hot-headed boy, I need not 
tell. My position was of much advantage. The 
theatre reverences the newspaper, and was I not 
able to open all doors by a flourish of a note-book? 
She w^as gracious, serene, and charming, receiving 
my attention and gifts with the same naivete that 
she always displayed at the merited applause of 
the public. It is difficult for a queen to be grate- 
ful. I, a humble subject, cared only that I might 
be in the presence of the throne. It was dream- 
life, glorious and satisfying, that I lived, and I 
gave no thought to the awakening. 

And Ruth ? I had persuaded myself that the 
loss of me would be but a trifling thing to her. I 



RUTH. 29 

remember now with a sense of relief that her lips 
had never sought mine; that she had never told 
me in plain words that she cared for me; and that 
" love " was distasteful to her. These things had 
vexed me in the old days, though in spite of them 
she had been true and sweet, and mine ; but now I 
rejoiced in them because they brought me a free- 
dom from self-condemnation. Ah! how little I 
knew, and how wise I seemed ! 

I still kept up some of the old companionship, 
however, and told Ruth nothing. I dreaded a 
violent rupture, and thought it better that we 
should drift slowly apart, I toward the sunrise of a 
newer love, and she — I knew not whither. And 
now came a thing strange and incomprehensible to 
me, because I knew nothing of that mysterious 
science that can read the thoughts of men almost 
as one reads the letters of a printed page ; that can 
hunt out with unerring accuracy the minutest 
object bidden in the obscurest nook. 

One evening, when Lohengrin — the only opera in 
which I disliked to see my star — was to be pre- 
sented, I determined to spend an hour with Ruth 
until it should be time for the lights to be lowered 
in the great theatre. It was partly the power of 
association, partly the desire to satisfy my waver- 
ing sense of justice to the girl, that I went — 
though heaven knows what justice it was to 
pretend to be what I was not. I rang the bell, and 
listened for the light answering step that I knew 
so well. It seemed less eager and joyous than 
usual to-night; but I quickly scouted the idea, for 



30 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

Ruth surely did not know. A soft, warm hand 
met mine, and lin^rered there. A curiou- feeling 
swept over me; — I was far away in the green-room 
of the theatre, enchanted by a pair of violet eyes 
with their bewildering fringe of long, curling lash. 
Then a voice seemed to say. '* You are thinking of 
her yet. Harold: she is in your mind always."* I 
was back again in an instant, and it was Euth who 
had spoken. I lrx)ked at her with amazement. 
The lids fluttered down over her eyes, veiling them 
from sight, yet she still held my hand clasped 
warmly in her own. Then I saw the fingers of her 
left hand stretching out as if in search of some- 
thing: they touched my overcoat, and crept up 
with almost superhuman grace till they reached 
the pocket in the breast. For an instant they 
trembled on the edge, then with a motion swift as 
thought they drew forth an envelope, creamy and 
perfumed, the fit receptacle for a billet-doux. I 
was perfectly helpless with astonishment and 
horror. Here were my schemes of an easy separ- 
ation utterly dashed in ruins by my own stupidity 
and some marvellous power in Kuth. Her eyes 
opened slowly and looked into mine, clear and 
true : the clasp of our hands was broken, while the 
letter floated waveringly to the floor. 

•Well! * I said, petulantly, wishing to hear the 
worst that could be spoken to me as soon as 
possible. 

Her words were calm and sad, with neither 
stormy reproach nor tearful pleading. '* Harold." 
she said. ** vour heart is far off. behind the crim- 



RUTH. 31 

son curtain — not here. Why should you stay with 
me ? She will miss your face as she sings. Good- 
bye." 

And so the moth went back to the radiant thral- 
dom of the candle. 

Of course there could be but one ending to the 
infatuation of an unknown boy for a beautiful and 
famous prima donna^ and it came swiftly. As I 
look back upon that winter, it seems ^ me that I 
must have seen through the flimsy pretense of 
affection, the scarce-concealed indifference, and 
the supreme selfishness of the woman who had 
so changed my life. But, alas! many wiser eyes 
than mine have been blinded to truth by a lovely 
face; and what was I, to claim miraculous vision? 

One bright Sunday evening I went to the house 
that she and her mother — a perfect zero, but 
useful for the purposes of propriety — had taken 
for the season, joyous and full of happy antici- 
pations. As I reached the top step a brilliant light 
shone out at me from the drawing-room window, 
and I felt some force impelling me to look within. 
What I saw drove all the manhood I possessed 
tingling to my finger-tips, for there, wrapped in 
rich furs, as if preparing for a cold drive, were a 
man and woman laughingly pelting one another 
with roses, — rare, costly Jacqueminots that I had 
sent to her that very day. As one of the dainty 
missiles struck the fellow in the face, he rushed 
forward in mock rage, and, clasping her in his 
arms, kissed her upon lier full, pouting lips. 

I was frantic with a terriVjIe an^er that would 



32 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

not have hesitated at killing; but before I could 
move a step the door opened, and we were face to 
face. 

" You scoundrel I " I cried; " you " 

"Don't mind him, Philip,'' said the lady, with 
her sweet, appealing voice; "he's only a crazy 
boy, one of my ' devoted,' you know." 

The revelation in the heartless words stupefied 
me. I had not the power to defend myself from 
what I knew must come, and in an instant I was 
reeling and crashing down to the pavement below. 
I felt the soft fur of a cloak brush my cheek, heard 
a silvery laugh, and then lost all knowledge of 
myself. 



How I came to Ruth that night I never clearly 
knew. I found myself at her door, weak, and full 
of dull pains that seemed to centre in the deep 
gash on my head. As if by some divine instinct 
she was at the door to receive me, even before I 
had touched a finger to the bell-knob. With 
uncertain step I followed her in, and threw myself 
wearily into a well known chair. Then in utter 
humiliation and self-loathing I poured forth the 
story of my infatuated wandering from the old 
affection, the sickening results of it all, and my 
sorrow^ful penitence. She listened with her sweet 
eyes bravely fixed upon mine, heard the words 
that told of her own desertion, — heard, and was 
silent. A great fear came upon me. 

" Ruth," I cried, passionately, " shall this make 



RVTH. 33 

a whole life's difference between us, this folly 
of mine ? I was mad, bnt my brain is clear again, 
and I see you as you are. All the world could not 
move me now, dearest. You cannot send me 
away ! ' ' 

Her words were few and simple. "Harold, 
there is a falseness that a woman can forgive, and 
one that she cannot. If you had left me to go 
above me, time miglit have brought you pardon, 
but foY that woman — I Yes, I care for you even 
now; — if that is any comfort, take it. But what 
would the future be to you, or to me, with this 
shadow over its sunshine '? We must bury the old 
days, Harold, and the new ones cannot be the 
fulfilment of their dreams.'' 

And that is why I am here, alone and in dark- 
ness, writing tlie story of how a pitiable fool, w^ho 
was himself, once threw away light, and love, and 
happiness. 

• W. D. Quint, '87. 
2* 



EXTRACTS FROM "BY THE WAY.'^ 



I sometimes sadly long for the days again of 
good Pythagoras and his obedient society, and 
most especially when, weary and despairing, I sit 
half-dazed and powerless to escape in the unend- 
ing flow of empty words that pour continuously, 
monotonously, from the lips of some loquacious 
bore. Truly, O great sage, we may well venerate 
the wisdom shown in your penalty upon these 
men, who talk and yet say nought, of five long 
years of silence, that the multitudinous produc- 
tions of weak and shallow brain might have an 
opportunity to condense and crystallize into a 
jewel worthy of remembrance. But still I sit and 
long, as in a scorching desert one looks at snow- 
clad hills, thinking still that twenty sleeping cen- 
turies have left one evil crying, and all because the 
old philosopher's remedy was cast aside in scorn. 

Talk ! the world to-day demands it ; and so far 
have times changed, that from concealing igno- 
rance under silence, it has come to be covered by 
many words. A man must talk to escape the impu- 
tation of being a fool, making up in quantity his 
lack of quality. Kind friend, does this eternal 
stream of verbosity pall with you as with me ? 
Do you find, as I do, many a man, who, like some 




J. C. SIMPSON '87. 



EXTRACTS FROM ''BY THE WAY.'' 35 

well-ordered machine, speaks words, words, words, 
without expression or sentiment; who, as you 
strike the key, will talk fluently of athletics, liter- 
ature, politics, or what you will, but from whom 
you turn in vain, richer by not one single idea for 
your hour's wasted time ? If so, you doubtless 
agree with me that our ancient friend had the 
right of it, and that five years' deepest silence is 
none too long for some men to think, that they may 
speak. 

While reading "An Ambitious Woman" the 
other evening, I came across the pretty little trib- 
ute paid by Columbia's distinguished literateiir to 
Dartmouth. He is making his hero, who gradua- 
ted there, speak. "It's a lovely old college, and 
it gained me some strong friendships. But I find 
that all my favorite classmates have drifted into 
other cities. They sometimes write to me, even 
yet. But of course the old good feeling will 
shortly cease. . . How can it fail to cease ? " 

Yes, it is a lovely old college ; and at once we 
wonder at what time the writer saw it, — if when 
the pendulous branches of its elms bent low with 
glittering icicles, or when the soft June breezes 
sent the shadows of their green leaves quivering 
over the deep coolness of the earth. It must have 
been in summer, when the haze hangs softest on 
the distant hills, and the dreamy languor of the 
long, warm, breathing afternoons seems brought 
from some lotus-eater's paradise : then, of all 
times, is the college most lovely. 



3^ DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

But liow about the latter clause ? Is it true that 
all "the old good feeling " of four years' associa- 
tion and companionship can be so easily blotted 
out by a short separation ? I can hardly think it 
so, and would not if I could. Many of the mere 
pleasant acquaintances here formed must drift out 
of sight on life's tide, as they do from elsewhere, 
but I firmly believe that the subtle essence of true 
friendshii) has a stronger quality than to allow it 
in after years to become only a remembrance. 
* * 

Hark ! Come here, all ye men who intend to fail 
in your examinations, and 1 will whisper a secret 
to you. It is rumored that in the future it will 
cost you three dollars to try, try again, ^ow you 
will have something to grind for, and the nights 
before examinations will be made to groan. Many 
times have you paid for pleasure, but I will war- 
rant this is th.e first time for the opportunity for 
hard work. And I think that in regard to the laws 
of business, the chronic flunkers should have the 
benefit of some rates. Three dollars for a single 
examination, two for five, would not be a bad 
arrangement, and would help many. Then, too, a 
certificate for ten examinations might be issued for 
twenty dollars, if paid in advance, and a good, 
clear profit be made thereon. Ah ! there are lots of 
chances to study economy in the different phases 
of this scheme, and the wise man will take them 
into consideration. But remember, as yet this is 

only Rumor. 

J. C. Simpson ^87. 




F. J. URQUHART '87. 



THRICE-TOLD TALES. 



THE WINDOW. 

''And is that all?" 

" Yes, all," came back in a muffled voice choked 
with sobs. "Well, then, good-bye. I know it 
can't be helped, but it is hard, very, very hard." 
" Yery, very hard," answered the tearful voice, 
lower than before. 

A silence followed, while the room grew darker 
and darker, and the night wind swayed the 
branches of the old elm without, which gently tap- 
ped the window, the window which can tell so 
many tales. 

" Hetty," at last said a voice out of the darkness, 
" will you give me that little sprig of lilac which 
you have at your breast?" Hastily and trem- 
blingly the white fingers undid the little spray and 
held it out to him. He took it eagerly, and held 
fast the little hand which gave it. A faint ray of 
light still struggled in at the window, and as they 
stood close beside it he could just discern a pale 
face stretched upAvard toward his own. The eyes 
were filled with tears, and the sweet lips quivered 
with the emotion which she longed to let loose in 
one wild passionate outburst of despair. 

Presently she felt that she was alone and that 



38 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

the rising wind was rattling the window. The 
moon was rushing along amidst fleecy clouds, cast- 
ing weird shadows through the branches of the old 
elm. Hetty pressed her burning forehead to one of 
the cool window panes and stared wild-eyed out 
into the night. Gone — the door was shut forever 
upon her hope. Oh, if he would only come back ! 
She would leave her father's house and go away 
with him whom she had but a moment ago so 
bravely refused, against the pleadings of her heart. 
She would call him back ! She uttered an inartic- 
ulate cry, but only the branches against the win- 
dow answered her, and worn out she sank down 
unconscious by the window-sill. 

For a long time the elm branches tapi3ed at the 
window. For a long time the ever-shifting moon- 
beams lit up the pale, marble-like face, with the 
dense masses of black hair about the brow. Like 
a half-recumbent statue carved from fairest, 
whitest marble she lay there with the perfect oval 
of one cheek resting upon her folded hands. 

What a change a few years can work ! The lilacs 
had bloomed and faded away but a few times 
before the room, yes, the house in which Hetty had 
passed that wretched night, and, in truth, many 
succeeding ones like unto it, was swept away. Its 
decease was not violent, for it neither went up in 
flame nor was it scattered by the whirlwind. It 
died from old age. For many a decade it had shel- 
tered generations of Hetty's grim ancestors, but 
now it w as forced to succumb, and was torn down to 
make room for a new and more modern structure. 



THBICE-TOLD TALES. 39 

Various portions of the dismantled mansion 
were used in the construction of the new one, but 
the windows, by some of the peculiar machinations 
of fate, soon found themselves doing their old-time 
duty in a large building just rearing its proud 
head, and the window of which particular mention 
has been made, lets in the light to the writer's 
study to this day. 

The lover never came back, and Hetty married 
the man her family had chosen. Oh, if he could 
have heard that wild, despairing cry which went 
out into the night ! They met once again in a 
cathedral in Italy, face to face — one look which 
showed too well that neither had forgotten, and 
that was all. 

The window has doubtless changed much since 
then. A single iridescent pane among a flock of 
modern brethren seems to remind one in a quaint 
way of the past. In spite of the innovations, there 
is a certain romantic air hanging about it which 
lends itself admirably to revery. The window-sill 
has been carved by many hands, and many marks 
have been well nigh obliterated by the paint and 
putty of many years. In one spot one can barely 
discern a '"60," and in another '"65." On a beau- 
tiful fall day, somewhere between the two dates 
just given, a young fellow was half leaning, half 
standing against the side of the window, evidently 
lost in meditation. The scene which stretched out 
away from the window was a beautiful one, but he 
saw it not. 

*'I will go," he said, after a time ; but the deci- 



40 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

sion arrived at scarcely seemed to please him, for 
he leaned his head lovingly against the window, as 
if loath to leave the old room and the older win- 
dow. Whatever those three words meant it was 
easy to see that the estrangement from all the 
aspects immediately about him was not far away. 
He looked away to the great granite hills, all in 
their purple and gold, but his eyes grew dim and 
an expression of pain flitted across his features. 
But when he turned from the window to the room 
he could scarcely restrain an exclamation of sor- 
row. He paced nervously up and down, picked up 
the various books strewn over his study table, 
turned over a few pages, and put them down again. 

Soon every one in the hall knew" that one of their 
number was to start for the South on the morrow, 
where he would join a New Hampsliire regiment. 
Thus he w^ent away, and the old window knew him 
no more. Yague tidings of the young hero reached 
the towm from time to time, until at last word 
came that death had overtaken him, a death most 
horrible — in a southern prison. Then the sorrow- 
ing people of the poor dead boy came. They 
invaded the tomb-like stillness of the deserted 
room, and put an end to the long reign of the old 
window over the smaller objects of the room. 
They gathered up the books, tearfully took dow^n 
the pictures and the knick-knacks, and left the 
window alone once more. 

How many a fellow las stood by this window, 
h joking off into the worid as it were, wondering 
what it would do with him when the bustle of 



THRICE-TOLD TALES, 4 1 

commencement should be over and the struggle of 
his life begun ! There is something strangely fasci- 
nating in the mute participating of inanimate 
objects in the drama of a man's life. Oh, the 
things they could tell of, could they speak ! Many 
a crime would be found out, many a grief changed 
to keenest joy. 

F. J. Urquhart '87, 



JON^ATHAN GRIGGS' CHRISTMAS PRESEISTT. 



You did not need a calendar to tell you that it 

was Cliristnias-tide in M . The store windows, 

the throngs of purchasers, the merry sleigh-bells 
proclaimed it. The dark churches were lighted, 
and as you passed you heard sweet voices singing 
the glorious anthems of the Nativity. 

None of the sweet influence of the Saviour's birth- 
tune had entered the heart of J mathan Griggs. 
As he sat in the private office of his bank, on the 
day before Christmas, he felt even more at enmity 
with all the world than usual. He hated the peo- 
ple who passed by for being so bright and cheerful, 
and at the same time envied them their happiness. 
When the time came for leaving the bank in the 
afternoon, he passed out with no greeting for his 
clerks, and slammed the door quite unnecessarily 
hard behind him. 

"Guess the old gent won't make many Christ- 
mas presents," said the dapper little teller, twirl- 
ing his mustache. 

" Right you are," rejoined a clerk, as he whirled 
himself about in his lofty seat, "and he'd dock 
our wages for tomorrow's holiday if he dared." 

The unconscious object of these amiable remarks 




N. M. HALL 'I 



JONATHAN GRIGGS' CHRISTMAS PRESENT. 43 

was being rattled rapidly homeward in his coupe. 

On C street there was a blockade of street cars 

and trucks, which stopped the onward progress of 
the carriage, and did not at all increase the amia- 
bility of its occupant. The blockade was cleared 
at last and the strong horse sprang forward into 
the clear stretch of street. Just at this moment a 
little girl started to run across from one sidewalk 
to the other. The horse was near the curbing, she 
could not avoid the quick forward movement and 
was struck down upon the pavement. The driver 
stopped, and Mr. Griggs, who had heard the child 
cry, quickly unfastened the door of his carriage, 
and was the first to reach the little prostrate form. 
He raised her up gently. It was dark, but from 
the glare of an electric light near by, he could see 
her face plainly. Her eyes were closed and there 
were traces of tears on her hollow cheeks. "Why," 
said he, with a sudden start, "she looks like 
Amy." It was a strange sight, the dignified bank 
president standing there with the little girl in his 
arms. A crowd was beginning to gather. 

" James," he said to the coachman who was 
standing by, " call an officer." 

He would send her to the hospital. He looked 
again in the pale face and his resolution wavered. 
When the policeman arrived, he simply gave orders 
for a physician to be sent to his residence at once, 
and entering the carriage with the little girl still in 
his arms was driven homeward. When he reached 
the house he carried her up the steps of the dark 
mansion, and when the wondering servant opened 



44 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

the door lie went up stairs and laid his burden on 
the little bed in the daintily furnished room that 
had been his own daughter's, before she had died 
yenrs ago. 

"A broken arm," the doctor said, but his keen 
eye noted, too, the thin little limbs and pinched 
face. " She must have the most careful treatment; 
the poor little thing has been half starved. We 
can take good care of her, Mr. Griggs, at the City 
hospital," — "Send me the best nurse in the city 
and give her your most skilful attention," sternly 
interrupted Mr. Griggs. And after carefully set- 
ting the broken arm the astonished physician hur- 
ried away to obey his orders. 

The stern banker had not always been as surly 
and misanthropic as the world at this time not 
unjustly gave him credit for being. Ten years ago 
his wife and daughter had died. Then the light 
went out of the world, and he had lost faith in God 
and man. 

This poor little waif had somehow strangely 
reminded him of his daughter. There was a sus- 
picious moisture in his eyes after the doctor had 
gone. It would take but a little now to bring back 
the old love and tenderness in the frozen heart. 
The little girl opened her eyes. 

"Where am I ?" she said, simply. 

"You're here, and I am taking care of you," 
said Mr. Griggs, in the gentlest tone he ( ould com- 
mand. 

She seemed satisfied with this answer and 
closed her eyes again. Presently she spoke. 



JONATHAN GRIGGS' CHRISTMAS PRESENT. 45 

'' This is Christmas eve." 

" Why, bless my soul, so it is, so it is. I had 
quite forgotten the circumstance; so it is, so it is." 
He took off his glasses and wiped them deliber- 
ately. He was thinking of a Christmas eve, years 
ago. 

The little voice spoke again, timidly. "My 
mamma used to read the Bethlehem chapter on 
Christmas eve." 

The ice was melting fast now. " Ahem, ah, — 
and you w^ould like to have me read it now, I sup- 
pose ? " 

"If you please, sir," she said, eagerly. 

He took up the Bible, a pretty little one with 
soft covers, that lay upon the table, and opened it 
to the second chapter of Luke. Then, sitting 
beside the child, he read the wondrous story of the 
Christ child's lowly birth. His voice choked at 
times. His old nature w^as dropping aw^ay like a 
garment. When he finished, the child was asleep, 
and kneeling beside the bed he thanked the 
Father w^lio had sent this Christmas gift to bring 
faith and love back to his lonely heart. 

I will not attempt to tell of the wonderful Christ- 
mas day that followed. The child thought she was 
in fairy land and Mr. Griggs was no less happy. 

He easily found out about her. It was the old, 
sad story of the orphan harshly treated by those 
who had her in charge, and after satisfying him- 
self of her good parentage he adoi)ted her into his 
home and heart. 

When Mr. Griggs went to the bank on the day 



46 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

following Christmas lie made a little speech to his 
clerks. 

" Gentlemen," he said, "I, ahem — forgot, that is 
I did n't, — but it 's never too late to mend and I have 
a little remembrance for Christmas, you know^." 
He then solemnly deposited a gold ten-dollar piece 
upon each desk and marched briskly to his private 
office, leaving tlie clerks in a state of stunned 
bewilderment. 

A few weeks later a gentleman connected with a 
charitable enterprise said to a friend, " Old Griggs 
came to me the other day and subscribed five thou- 
sand to the Orphans' Home. Took my breath 
away. Guess we shall put it through now." 



It is fifteen years later. There is to be a wed- 
ding to-morrow, Christmas day, in the old Griggs 
mansion, and servants are bustling to and fro, 
busy with preparations. It is twilight and Christ- 
mas eve. The old man sits in his favorite 
room and his daughter is at his feet ; while he 
smooths gently her soft, dark hair. They are 
silent and he gazes out of the window. The dark 
spires and roofs of the city are outlined against the 
glowing west. High above the spires, above the 
smoke and exhalations, a bright star is shining. 

"The star of Bethlehem," she says, softly. 

"Yes, dear, the star of Bethlehem. Fifteen 
years ago you came to me, a Christmas gift, and 
now I am going to give you up." 

Her arms were around his neck in an instant. 



JONATHAN GRIGGS' CHRISTMAS PRESENT. 47 

"No, clear, it is all right, all right. There is the 
bell; run, little girl, and welcome him." 

She kissed him and hastened away. 

The old man was left alone, with the stai; of 
Bethlehem shining in at the window. 

N, M, Hall '88. 



EXTRACTS FROM '^ BY THE WAY.' 



And the latest is from Yale. Hearken! Daniel 
Doane Bidwell, recently a graduate, "leaving the 
path of journalism," sails for the Bahama Isles, 
bent on finding the long-lost gold of Capt. Kidd. 
Now, repudiating at once that Daniel was a bad 
boy, and played poker, and lost heavily on the 
eight-oared crew while in college — repudiating all 
this as too visionary to be even possible, it is yet 
mournfully probable that he needs the gold sorely. 
Yes, we all know how it is in college : the money 
doesn't stay, and bills do; and our pockets become 
congested with them, and we try desperately to 
think of something new — something with money in 
it — something we can smite with the whole tre- 
mendous mass of our college education, and bring 
forth "streams of revenue," only to wander at 
length into "the paths of journalism" of six dol- 
lars per week, or teach in a rural city with one 
mail a day. But Daniel Doane Bidwell rises with 
the occasion. Journalism is slow. Clearly he 
must try something else ; and he is not found want- 
ing. The originality and audacity of his scheme 
are actually startling, captivating. Why hadn't 
we thought of it long ago ? 




F. L. PATTEE 



EXTRACTS FROM ''BY THE WAY.'' 49 

Do you wisli for some rare sport? Then do n't 
be in a hurry about taking your chapel seat some 
morning. The bell is just tolling for the last time. 
Let us stand here by the doors. A minute more, 
and they will be shut ; but see the long row of stu- 
dents on every path leading to the chapel. Xow, 
who will tell us why nearly half the students come 
in during the last minute of the seven ? Is it to 
economize time, do you suppose ? But the line 
will beai' study. Here is a fellow almost at the 
front, yet pushing and elbowing with energy 
increasing with every stroke of the bell. Evi- 
dently he is usually on time ; while another, 
almost in the middle of the campus, is sauntering 
along briskly, in no apparent hurry, however. He 
knows to a stroke how many times the bell will 
toll on the average, and how far to a foot he should 
go at each stroke, and smiles contemptuously at 
the nervous pedestrians that jostle past him. 
Xine, ten ! booms the bell. The movement 
becomes accelerated all along the line. Eleven, 
twelve I The voluntary within Avould have to 
accelerando to keep time with the pedestrians. 
The long-distance runners come in sight. Twelve, 
thirteen I The sprinters make their apj)earance — 
uncombed, unwashed, unfed. The music within 
would have to increase prestissimo, fortissimo, slap- 
bang ! to even keep in sight of the contest. Four- 
teen ! — a period of breathless excitement. One 
has slipped on the ice, and is out of the race. We 
must go in, for the next stroke may be the last ; 

and the finish must be without witnesses. Rumor 
3 



so DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

says that at least one gets left every morning, and 
even professors have been known to be among the 
number ; but then, who knows ? The most of us 
are quietly sitting in our straight-backed pews, 
unconscious of the stirring scenes just without ; 
but then it is so everywhere. How few c^f us know 
the stirring scenes that are going on daily just out- 
side of our quiet little lives ! 

Put up your book and racquet, and let me lead 
you on an after-supper stroll. I wonder if you 
know how rich the region about Hanover is in lit- 
tle winding vales and romantic spots, just right to 
explore. The bobolink flutters ecstatically over, 
trilling his reedy notes ; the willows and cherry- 
bushes waft an almost intoxicating sweetness 
down the breeze; everything is so joyous and fresh 
that you will wonder why you have n't been out a 
hundred times before. 

Let us follow up this little stream which comes 
splashing down from among the hemlocks. The 
rocks in its bed are covered with green moss, and 
the half twilight of the little glen gives it a wild 
look. Here is primeval forest — at least let us 
imagine so — afar from man and his haunts. Per- 
haps there is a p mther lurking in the cavernous 
tops of those hemlocks ; this bush was cropped by 
a deer ; and hark ! — a cow-bell : and liere I am in a 
barbed-wire fence. 

F. L. Pattee '88. 




\V. B. FORBUSH '88. 



FUISSET. 



Basil was spending the summer up among the 
hill farms of Xew Hampshire, and in idle reading 
and rambling the months had flitted by until, ere 
he knew it, the hazy Indian Summer was upon him, 
and in two days more he would leave for the city. 
As a last excursion he determined upon a solitary 
climb up Mount Anselm, whose bald granite crest 
stood grand and alone against the eastern sky. 

In the early morning, brushing the dew drops 
and cobwebs away as he hurried on, he passed up 
through the furzy f)astures into the shadows and 
stillness of the mountain pathway. Out from the 
fresh brightness of the early day he entered the 
cool seclusion of the forest. The path followed 
the dry, rocky bed of a torrent and sloped for the 
most part gradually up the ascent. On either side 
lay the tapestried bed of autumn leaves, and every 
little Avhile the trees opened into lanes that w^an- 
dered, no one can tell where, into the wilderness. 

Half way up w^as a grateful spring, the watering- 
resort of the birds and beasts- of the mountain, and 
the dainty tracks showed around its sandy brim. 
It seemed hardly a moment more and of a sudden 
the trees broke away and he was upon the heart of 



52 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

nature itself, the granite bed rock covered with 
soft moss, blueberries, and sweet fern. Now a 
short, strong, hard climb, digging his toes if ijos- 
sible into the very stone, and he stood free and 
alone and very weary upon the summit. Above 
the world, what a thought, what an inspiration! 
A mountain's top seems to be the only place in the 
^vorld where the trials and weariness of life cannot 
follow us. We stand above them as above the world, 
and see them, like the dwellings of men, petty and 
small below, quiet in the summer peacefulness. 
So felt Basil, as he stood upon the topmost boul- 
der and took in the deep draughts from the strong, 
cool wind that sw^ept across the sun.mit. Soon, 
sheltering himself from the too boisterous wel- 
come of the breeze, he slid down to a crevice on the 
eastern side of the ledge and took in more slowly 
the scenes before him. The view from this moun- 
tain is peculiarly interesting. Around the base 
cluster smaller w^ooded peaks and towards the 
east and north lies the primeval wilderness of for- 
est and rock, while on the w^est and south lie fer- 
tile farms and white villages. Here and there are 
rivers like silver threads and little lakes lie blue 
and still beneath the shadow of the hills beside 
them, and all around stand the mountains of Xew 
England, from the White Hills to Wachusett and 
Killington, like barriers from the world. 

Just as he was finishing his survey he thought 
he heard a light stei^ below him, and looking over 
the crags he saw a maiden climbing rapidly, alone 
and almost upon him. She passed by him very 



FUISSET. S3 

near but did not see him and took her station upon 
the high rock from which he had just descended. 
She did not appear much exhausted by her toil 
but bounded lightly upon the boulder. She was 
small and light and the opening blossom of eigh- 
teen years was upon her. She was fair, but a tri- 
fle flushed ; she had dark, soft eyes and her beauti- 
ful black hair was only confined behind by a rib- 
bon of red. Her dress was of plain black with a 
little red here and there, and standing straight and 
strong against the clear blue sky she was indeed 
a lovely picture. She made Basil think of the 
blackberries that clung around the base of the 
mountain in her black, ripe beauty. For a long 
time Basil sat as if under a sweet spell, buried in 
thought, but at length lie rose and made his pres- 
ence known to her. She started at first in sur- 
prise, but Basil was no ogre and soon she was bus- 
ily engaged in naming to him the hazy peaks that 
peeped over the horizon on every side. From 
nature the talk drifted around to men and the 
world, and, building a fire of scrub brush as they 
sat beneath the ledge, Basil led the conversation 
on to his favorite fields of fancy and romance. 
She w^as a girl in looks but in thought and ideas a 
woman grown. She had read, too, somewhat of 
his favorite authors, and her heart was a girl's 
heart of tender feeling and sentiment. So they 
talked pleasantly and freely and the hours went by 
with silent, rapid feet. Close beside him she sat 
and told him the folk tales of the mountain and 
mingled with them her own fresh, sweet thoughts. 



54 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

In turn, lie gave her some of his OAvn strange 
dreamy thoughts, and her dark eyes glowed as she 
looked up in appreciation of their beauty. 

Basil was strangely moved as never before. The 
clock of his soul was striking the long looked for 
hour of fate, and he whispered to himself, joyfully, 

"The hour* has come, the hour has come." He 
felt by a subtle instinct that to her the hour was 
as momentous as to himself. 

As she sat by the embers the wandering breezes 
sweeping by the rocks had loosened her hair, and 
its luxuriant black locks fell down her shoulders in 
a stream. 

Out from this dark background peeped her face 
like a blossom, and she looked a queen, queen of 
gipsies and all things that are sweet and wild. 

At length she arose to go. To his great surprise 
she would not give him her name. "IS'o, my 
friend," said she, "it has been a pleasant dream, 
but it is over." A touch of the hand, a glance, and 
she was gone, skipping and dancing down over the 
rocks until she was lost to view in the woods. 

Basil aroused ; it had indeed been a dream and it 
had passed away. A great pain shot through his 
heart, and he arose sadly to go. A moment he 
stood and looked in the direction of the departing 
girl, and heard far below him the faint dying 
strains of a sweet voice singing. 

Another instant and all was silent. He took his 
last look on the south below him. He thought of 
Wolfang M tiller's lyric and repeated it over to him- 
self. "Upon a mountain high I stand bound 



FUISSET. 55 

down. Far as the sight extends the land extends 
in evening stillness. The vault of heaven glows in 
deep dark blue. The house of earth seems like a 
church. Deep red fades to purple in the wonder- 
ful west, in the world-temple it glows like a high 
altar. Thence the sun in setting casts its rays 
upon us and sheds soft an evening blessing along 
the wide land. In town and village the clocks 
strike a full sound. On light, clear wings the 
sweet song sustains itself. There gather together 
in heaven's arch the mighty clouds, and the sanc- 
tuary of the altar is overcast with shadows. There 
is silence in the air, the red fades from the west, 
I stand blown about by the fragrance of the flow- 
ers. The lovely day glows out ; but not my soul." 
Then the poet speaks of his holy joy at eventide, 
but Basil repeated no more. Sadly and slowly he 
descended from the mountain ; the great day of his 
life had set and he was 'again alone. 

W. B. Forbush '88, 



LEAVES FROM A STUDEXT'S XOTE-BOOK. 



Did you ever see a wreck ? If not, you cannot 
know the feeling of sadness that comes over one 
at such an example of the limited power of man as 
is presented by a staunch vessel groaning and part- 
ing, as it were, limb from limb, a helpless victim 
of the elements. Far be it from me to say I 
desired such a sight during my stay among the 
fisher-folk, with whom I was thrown some winters 
since. I had turned aside with a shudder when 
it had been suggej^ted to me that some of the baser 
sort, goaded on as they were by the failure of the 
fishing season, were actually hoping a loaded ves- 
sel would be driven ashore, looking upon all the 
ocean gave as their rightful heritage, regardless of 
the base libel they were casting upon the noble 
and generous natures of the really representative 
people of the place. Still, when, one bitter morn- 
ing as I was congratulating myself upon such a 
chowder as one never sees inland, and such coffee 
as it {>eems as though only coast people know how 
to make, the stirring news of a ship ashore at 
"Long Xook " was heralded through the opened 
door by a weather-beaten fisherman, the salt spray 
dripping from his grizzled locks, I could not but 




W. F. GREGORY '^ 



LEAVES FROM A STUDENT* S NOTE-BOOK. S7 

hasten to take advantage of one of the most tragic 
sights mankind ever sees. 

My friend and I fought our way as best we 
might against the strong wind cutting our faces 
cruelly with its burden of sand and gravel, along 
over sandy dunes and amid thickets of scrub-oak, 
until at last we caught sight of the swaying top- 
masts of the distressed vessel, and fell in with the 
plunderous crowd of half-breed Portuguese, the 
curse of our fishing towns to-day, driving their 
blue one-horse carts to the shore, eager for the 
expected spoil, like vultures hovering around a 
field of battle. Farther on, crowded in the lee of a 
protecting bluff, we found almost the entire male 
population of the vicinity, intently watching to see 
the doomed vessel "break up." She lay stranded, 
having beached herself broadside on at low tide, 
and now the ribing flood of waters was closing 
about her, each surge opening wide, yawning 
seams in her planking, and each fresh gust of wind 
rending the stout canvas of her sails. Fortunately 
there had been no loss of life ; the surfmen had 
done their work well, and life-line and buoy had 
saved the crew, who, chilled and weakened by 
their tedious battle with wind and wave, were now 
being nursed back to vigor by the brawny tender- 
ness of the men at the life-saving station. 

The vessel was a gallant one, a three-master rig- 
ged barkentine-fashion, and was bound from ^ew 
York to Bangor. jS^o novice was she, as her worn 
oaken planks bore witness, and after riding out 

many a gale in safety she was nearing her end here 
3* 



58 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

on an ignominious sand-bar, rendered unmanage- 
able by the shifting of her cargo. 

The tide came higher and higher, casting flecks 
of foam in our faces as we obediently gave place. 
Now the water had reached her cabin, and various 
articles from there were cast at our feet, to be 
curiously examined by the crowd. Among these 
was one object the sight of which brought an 
involuntary hush upon all. It was the cabin lUble, 
an old-fashioned leathern-bound volume that had 
evidently been the family Bible in the home of the 
captain. Other things had been carelessly thrown 
into a pile under the direction of the wreck-mas- 
ter, who had meanwhile arrived ; but this was rev- 
erently yielded to the gray-haired minister, — who, 
braving the fury of wind and storm, had sought 
the scene among the first, — to be preserved by him 
for the unfortunate captain, a fine young fellow, 
who was part owner, and would be ruined by the 
calamity. 

So the time passed on. The good ship yielded 
more and more to the resistless swell, the rigging 
gave way piece by piece, her stout timbers were 
forced apart, and finally, with a crash that had all 
the semblance of a last despairing cry, the vessel 
broke in twain, and with a lurch disappeared in 
the seething vortex of angry waters. At low tide 
the sea would give her up, the shattered remnants 
of hull and cargo would be sold at auction for per- 
haps a hundredth part of their original value, 
while the vagabond element of the place would 
prey for weeks upon whatever was left or over- 



^ LEAVES FROM A STUDENT'S NOTE-BOOK. $9 

looked — a truly pitiable end for the gallant " Look- 
out." With my mind filled with a strange sense 
of sadness, I returned to my stopping-place to vary 
my journal, as life is vari-ed, with a melancholy 
page among the joyous ones. 

W. F, Gregory '88. 



A VILLAGE FEUD. 



Mr. Aslibel Tarbox is the subject of this sketch. 
He was from Jones, county of Jones, and, accord- 
ing to his neighbors, state of perpetual irritation. 
One of these neighbors, who persisted in seeing a 
humorous side in Mr. Tarbox' s nature, likened him 
to a bottle of beer ; but the simile failed, for 
although as far as known he was fizzling when 
first opened, yet now, after the cork had been 
drawn some sixty years, he fumed in a livelier 
manner than ever. The likeness was wanting in 
another respect. His ebullitions were sometimes 
more than a harmless discharge of gas. Two 
small boys, who had evidently been brought up in 
Christian families, saw him at work near his house. 
It was a warm day, and as Mr. Tarbox had taken 
olf his hat, and moreover as his cranium had a very 
smooth and shining aspect, the curiosity of the 
boys was naturally excited. They stood in the road 
and saluted Mr. Tarbox, "Go up, thou baldhead." 

The person addressed merely cast a glance 
toward the road. The boys came a little nearer, 
and, getting behind a tree, repeated their saluta- 
tion and precipitately fled. The third time they 
came still nearer and remained to watch the eifect 
of their greeting. But they staid to their cost ; 
for Mr. Tarbox suddenly turned and gave chase, 




W. D. BAKER >q. 



A VILLAGE FEUD. 6 1 

and catching the unfortunate boys, rapped their 
heads together in a most vigorous manner. But 
his anger cooled as quickly as it heated, and he 
went to the father of the boys with the intention 
of apologizing for his hastiness. 

"Mr. Smithers," said he, "I am afraid that I 
have acted very hastily with your boys this morn- 
ing and I want to beg your pardon. My temper 
ran away with me. I was working near my house 
when your boys came up and without cause began 
to insult me. You will at least let me say, sir, that 
it showed a very bad bringing up on the part of 
those boys. They kept throwing at me every vile 
name they could think of ; and at last I chased 
them and whacked their heads together in a way 
they wont forget very soon. And I want you to 
understand, sir, that I shall do it again every time 
I get a chance. You had better keep your boys at 
home, sir, or, by George, you will find them in jail 
some fine day. And let me say again, sir, that you 
can't blame the boys with such a bringing up as 
they have had." And having apologized in this 
eminently satisfactory manner, Mr. Tarbox, emit- 
ting sundry grunts and snorts expressive of deep 
disgust, turned on his heel and walked off with as 
much dignity as five feet two and a lame knee 
could assume. 

He lived on terms of hostility with one Gross. 
Now, as has been said, Mr. Tarbox was quick of 
body and temper. Mr. Gross was ponderous as to 
both. Mr. Tarbox held an attitude of active hos- 
tility, while Mr. Gross, with a sanctimonious air. 



62 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

was wont to assert that he felt not the least hard 
feeling towards his neighbor ; on the contrary, he 
felt in this case, if in no other (with an emphasis on 
the "if" that implied that there were very few 
whom he could not forgive) that he could love his 
liis enemy. Mr. Tarbox would wade through snow 
or mud to reach the other side of the street when 
he saw the rotund form of his enemy ambling 
towards him ; while Mr. Gross always took pains 
to say " good morning," and to make some origi- 
nal remark upon the weather ; to which the one 
addressed, looking steadily away, would answer 
nothing. Indeed this willingness to forgive was 
no small thorn in his bellicose neighbor's side. 

One day Mr. Tarbox was driving toward home 
after a long ride. In the distance he spied the 
well known carriage and broad shoulders of his 
enemy. The sight made a change in his appear- 
ance. He straightened up, buttoned his overcoat 
tightly about him, and even gave what sounded like 
a chuckle, an expression which was followed by a 
preternaturally solemn and revengeful expression 
of countenance. He then applied the whip ; and 
Mr. Tarbox was no mean judge of horse flesh. 

About this time Mr. Gross turned his head — 
then he applied the w^hip. 

The sight of two horses, neck to neck, dashing 
along the road towards the village was one to throw 
lovers of horse flesh into ecstasies of admiration. 
It was a beautiful race. But suddenly Mr. Gross's 
horse stumbled and fell and his owner was thrown 
violently into the ditch, where he lay quite still. 



A VILLAGE FEUD. 63 

In a few moments Mr. Tarbox was at liis side. 
Leaning over the prostrate figure, lie gave a groan 
and then springing into his carriage dashed on for 
the doctor. In fifteen minutes he was at the spot 
again, to find the horse lying in the road but the 
injured man gone. The bystanders said that he 
had been taken home. Cursing himself again and 
again, as each new occasion of remorse tortured his 
soul, he made his way to the home of his enemy. 
He w^as completely humbled. An ominous silence 
pervaded the house. He thought the neighbors 
eyed him askance and whispered to one another. 

But his heart gave a great leap of joy as the doc- 
tor told him, while he eagerly pressed into the sick 
room, "It is only a faint. He is not in danger." 
As he bent over the bed the injured man opened 
his eyes. 

'' I am very sorry. Can I do anything for you ? " 

Mr. Gross whispered feebly for pencil and paper. 
For a minute he was busy, and as his weak hand 
feebly traced something on the paper a tear fell 
upon it from Mr. Tarbox' s overflowing eyes. He 
took the paper handed him and read : 

A. Tajrbox to J. Q. Gross, Db. 

To one horse ...... $250.00 

To one carriage 150.00 

To injuries sustained .... 100.00 



$500.00 



The ill feeling between the gentlemen still con- 
tinues. 

W. D. Baker '89. 



IN WHITE AND CRIMSON. 



All the bleak November day snow had been 
driving in scuds from the south-west, sifting among 
the sear grasses of the meadows with a sad sound, 
blotting out all view of the near hills, and soon 
ceasing as quickly as it came. Then the leaden 
clouds would drift apart and break, disclosing an 
irregular i)atcli of the purest blue, far into which 
one could look for a moment, and then the hurry- 
ing mass would shut it out again. The squalls had 
not been able to cover the cold earth with more 
than a half inch of its winter blanket, but the fre- 
quency of the flurries had ruined our hope of any 
view from the mountain summit, so we were slowly 
descending. How dreary are these mountain sur- 
roundings, and Avhat a lonely life must be led in 
the little houses scattered along the rocky roads, 
when winter is threatening and the green garments 
of the mighty hills are all gone ! Little faces 
were pressed against the panes often as we- 
passed, and the sight of our company was, perhaps, 
the only event to break the monotony of a week, 
except the sound of a distant cannon, booming at 
intervals during the day, which told that somebody 
had been elected to the nation's highest office, 
though the women in the houses hardly knew who 
it was. 





O. S. DAVIS '89. 



IN WHITE AND CRIMSON. 65 

There is something in the setting of the sun 
which brings a sense of holy calm over the be- 
holder. Perhaps it is the symbol of death in that 
glorious sinking of the mighty king ; perhaps 
there is something in the flashing and fading of 
orange and crimson which suggests hills and pala- 
ces far away, to which we shall some day come, 
floating as did the canoe of Hiawatha down the 
wide, flaming avenues. 

The clouds were breaking just above the western 
horizon. Great masses, ragged and red, hung on 
the trail of the gray host slowly creeping north- 
eastward. The mountains far in the west were 
blue and cold, but above them a narrow strip of 
sky was all aglow^ with colors, which met and 
warmed the tattered clouds. Slowly the crimson 
space grew wider ; the colors faded into the in- 
creasing blue ; they threw^ a mantle of purple over 
the nearer hills, cast a tinge of the faintest green 
upon the base of the one cloud-mass remaining, 
and seemed to bless the wind-swept fields with a 
promise of warmth. 

It w^as a curious old man that we passed soon 
after, just as the sunset was fading. He stood 
upon a bridge flung over a noisy, swollen brook, 
near a ruined mill, and had evidently been watch- 
ing the sun. There was a look in his face so ten- 
der and patient that it seemed sadly out of place 
under the slouched hat, beneath which stole out 
some locks of hair almost as white as the fresh 
snow^ on the foot-path. He passed us with a cheer- 
ful smile and greeting, and toiled slowly up the 



66 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

hill. I asked about him in the village that night, 
and only with difficulty learned anything. Finally 
an old lady told me that she had known him when 
a boy. He came from the state across the Connec- 
ticut, and lived on a small farm up on the moun- 
tain with a nephew. Long ago, when his shoul- 
ders were not bent as now, and when he was the 
brawniest young man of the village which nestled 
close under Killington, he had loved a fair girl, who 
had been his schoolmate and friend in the years of 
his childhood. The day had been set for their 
wedding, the farm was bought and almost paid for, 
when the fever ran through the village, and she 
was stricken. Three times the seventh day passed 
by, and the terrible conflict went on, but before 
the fourth had come disease had conquered the 
strong young life. The farm in the valley was 
sold, and the young man, in despair, left the village 
of his birth. She said that he was always kind and 
cheerful. He always came to the village church 
on Sundays ; but when he was observed vfatching 
the mountains in the west, his face would light 
with that strange gleam which we may imagine 
prophets sometimes had. 

Who can tell what sights are seen by those whose 
souls have been tried through many years by a 
constant grief, and the knowledge that a great hap- 
piness, once almost theirs, is lost forever ? And I 
wonder if the white-haired man, watching Killing- 
ton fade into gloom that evening, saw more clearly 

than I the hills and the palaces. 

O. S. Davis '89, 




G. S. MILLS 'QO. 



UPON THE MOUNTAIK-TOP. 



Pressing heedlessly tlirougli the briers and this- 
tles of the rough mountain pasture, skipping 
lightly from stone to stone embedded in the tumb- 
ling crystal of the mountain brook, pushing through 
shrubbery and thicket, stumbling over decayed, 
haK-hidden logs, gnarled roots, and moss-srown 
rocks, climbing and slipping, slipping and climb- 
ing, but always up, up, — at last, hot, breathless, 
and weary, but happy in our triumphal endeavor, 
we stand upon the summit. 

It is a magical August afternoon. Far above us 
great massy puffs of cloud lazily drift across the 
glad heaven, their snowy whiteness giving a radi- 
ant purity to the azure. Three thousand feet 
below, almost straight down as the plummet, lie 
stretched, within the encircling guardianship of the 
everlasting hills, the soft, dimj)ling, sun-smitten 
waters of a beautiful lake, its thirty miles of length 
of most irregular, fantastic form. Over thrifty 
Canadian farms, meadows in their second bright 
robe of green, russet-colored corn-fields, lustreless 
areas of yellow stubble ; over wooded slope, and 
the intervening pleasant valleys where nestles as a 
jewel in its crown the flashing mirror of many a 



6S DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

small lake ; or interwinds the silver gleam of river 
and brook, — far, far away we look, till our strained 
vision is shut in by the pale blue of majestic moun- 
tain peaks that lose themselves on the mystical hor- 
izon. Rapturously our arms are outstretched, as 
we would clutch to ourselves all this glory and 
wealth which lie just beyond us, the fairest of 
earth, but the unattainable. 

Often have I stood upon the summit of nature's 
monument to God, — but whether upon the great 
Washington, or upon a comj^anion peak scarcely 
less regal, or amid the historic beauty of the Cat- 
skills, or, as to-day, upon some lowlier eminence, 
it has ever been the mount of transfiguration of 
common thoughts and aims. Drink in the pure 
air as it comes a breath of heaven, giving a fore- 
taste of the vigor of eternal youth ; bathe the eye 
in the sea of harmonious tints and colors, looking 
down at the checkered and varied hues of the land- 
scape, and up into the fathomless depths of the 
blue ; feel the peace, the power, the purity, the 
beauty of the spirit of creation ; realize that you 
are of it and should be like it, — and wonder not 
that the robe of your sordid, selfish nature has been 
exchanged for a white and shining garment. Get 
thee occasionally upon the mountain-top, thou 
dweller in the low-lands I Your restless strivings, 
doubt, despair, will seem of petty moment. 

Away to the Xorth sounds a subdued but omi- 
nous rumbling, and we note an inky thunder-cloud 
that rapidly grows mire tumid, and blackens and 
ruffles the smooth surfac e of the water as it sweeps 



UPON THE MOUNTAIN-TOP. 69 

resistless down its path between the hills. A bald- 
headed eagle, the fierce precursor of the approach- 
ing storm, shoots up before us with a wild scream, 
pierces the sky until he seems the size of a swal- 
low, drops a little below the level of the mountain- 
top, circles on even wing, and falls like a thunder- 
bolt into the darkening waters. The storm is now 
furiously lashing the lake directly below, while we 
experience only a relatively slight wetting from 
the western edge of the clou I, and witness a sub- 
lime spectacle, almost from behind the scene, as it 
were. The seething, heaving blackness is rent in 
every direction by flash upon flash of jagged and 
forked flre. Xow and then the lightning seems 
darting all about us, and the livid glare and terri- 
fic thundering, peal following upon peal in one pro- 
longed cannonade, does not so much affright as 
awe and bewilder us. As our sense of security 
deepens, despite the awful majesty of the sight, a 
wild, exultant delight seizes us. 1 can compare it 
only to the sensation which the ice-yachtsman ex- 
periences when hurtling through space faster than 
the wind which carries him. It is a sort of tempo- 
rary madness, when one ceases to think, and is all 
feeling — a recognition by the spirit of man of its 
elemental kinship with the forces of nature. 

The storm has long since passed from view, and 
a holy calm broods upon land and water. The 
shadows are stealthily creeping from the hills and 
taking possession of the lake, but the bald and 
glistening mountain-top is still bathed in the mel- 
low flood of light. jS^ow a company of errant sun- 



70 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

beams steal through a niche of rock, trail their 
gold dust down the dark green of the ravine, and 
leave a shining pathway across the placid waters. 
The stillness of the air seems almost preternatural ; 
but the dearth of sound is of short duration, and 
we hear the resonant whistle of the steam-boat 
below, while the lowing of cattle driven home from 
pasture, and the incessant tinkling of a cow-bell, 
come to the ear in softest and clearest tones. 
Faster and faster sinks the sun. As his great red 
disc just dips below the horizon, the sunlight 
lingers lovingly, loth to relinquish its fair posses- 
sions, kissing with fading warmth hill-top and val- 
ley, gilding spire and roof with purest gold, a part- 
ing blessing to the weary and unthinking toilers 
of earth. A moment more, and the bridegroom 
has returned to his chamber. The orange deepens 
into a crimson flush, which climbs higher and 
higher till the western sky is all aflame. In such 
a radiancy of glory might the soul catch a glimpse 
of the mansions of that heavenly city, "whose 
builder and maker is God." 

G. S. MilU '9U, 



BIRD-YOICES. 



There come days when we tire of the town, with 
all its enjoyments, and the study loses its every 
charm. We take down the well thumbed volume 
of that author whose words are wont to send deep 
thoughts thrilling through us and bear us away 
from the quicksands of low spirits with which we 
are struggling, only to feel dismal ennui creep over 
us. Such days come oft times when the cold bonds 
of winter are, for the first time, being loosed by 
spring. Then we toss aside the book in disgust, 
and steal off alone to breathe the free air once 
more, to bathe the eye in the boundless sea of pure 
blue, and to listen to the voices of the earth. 

How pleasant are those evening trysts with good 
Dame Mature, on some unfrequented bridge out- 
side the town, where the darkling waters, as they 
gurgle and babble, raise a melody sweeter and 
more satisfying than the grandest symphony could 
be to you then ! What companionship there is, 
too, in the clamor of the frogs on a spring even- 
ing ! What was little better than a solitude by 
day, when night sets in becomes one grand opera, 
with you in the midst of the musicians. There is 
no tuning of instruments, but as soon as the pro- 



72 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

verbial curtain of night has fallen, the mnsic be- 
gins : and the gv^wd finale of the frogs dismisses 
retiring day. But the murmuring of streams, the 
frog chorus, the buzzing of bees, the stridulous, 
crisp music of the crickets and locusts, the sough 
of the wind through the pines, are but Nature's 
minor chords, charming in themselves, but all 
unheard and unnoticed beside the songs of birds. 

The birds are the poets of the field and forest, 
that sing not for the sake of art, but utter forth 
strains of unpremeditated music, without caring a 
straw that their roundelay be fashioned into a 
rondel., or their song into a chant royal. Indeed, 
all those that the Muse seems to have endowed 
most highly exhibit a disregard for set forms that 
is truly wonderful, being veritable Walt Whit- 
mans in that regard. Nevertheless, each songster 
has his two or three standard songs, chefs cVceuvre^ 
as it were, begun by some remote ancestors essay- 
ing an epic, perchance, on the exploits of his rep- 
tilian grandfathers, which was emended and pol- 
ished by succeeding generations, as Darwin would 
have us believe, until, lo I the perfect bird-song, 
as we hear it on a dewy May morning, hot from 
the bird's own gushing throat. 

While our featherless poets are being lauded 
and are receiving all the attention that they can 
reasonably expect for themselves, these humbler 
winged bards, singing not for notoriety but for the 
love of song itself, we are apt to slight in what 
passes with us for the politer circles. To restore 
to these woodland bards that place of honor that 



BIRD-VOICES. 73 

« 

their dignity deserves, I would introduce to the 
reader a few of this large and gifted circle, in their 
true capacity, of those that court the Muse. 

Let us leave to the ornithologist to dissect his 
body and to count his tail feathers, and to the mis- 
guided devotees of the fetich fashion to wear his 
embalmed corpse on those jaunty mausoleums, the 
modern bonnet. What more do we care for the 
dimensions of robin's beak and claw than for those 
of Virgil's nose and middle digit ! 

How admirably are birds adapted to their voca- 
tion as songsters ! They have not to invoke the 
Muse, to be borne aloft on her wing ; they have 
only to bid farewell to mundane care and prosaic 
bread-winning, and then soar away above the 
clouds. How it must elevate their aspirations, 
when earth below dwindles into insignificance, and 
they behold, as they sail higher and higher, only 
that vast sea of space, the billows of which are 
breaking on the shores of infinity ! I have often 
wondered that the eagle,- the loftiest flyer of our 
birds, can utter only a harsh, wild scream. Can it 
be that those grand heights overawe his expres- 
sion, and that this cry, the very essence of wild- 
ness, is the outburst of thoughts too deep to be 
fashioned into words? Why drag the subject 
down to the plane of realism, and try to explain it 
by wordy technicalities and sage remarks about 
the larynx and glottis ! 

Like their contemporaries, the songsters of genus 
homo, the birds have their schools and their proph- 
ets. From these I purpose to single out a few dis- 



74 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

tinguislied individuals, and criticise them with all 
possible candor. 

Here in America we must grant the first places 
to the thrushes and sparrows. In England the 
warblers have philomel to be their chief singer ; 
but here they seem to have almost lost the divine 
art of song, while they spend their time in display- 
ing their brilliant coats in our parks and shady 
avenues, and in engaging in such prosaic pursuits 
as bug-catching and the like. One cannot describe 
the songs of the thrush school in general terms : 
each one of its members must be studied individ- 
ually to enable one to appreciate the whole group. 
There are some traits, however, that shine out so 
distinctly and clearly that they cannot be over- 
looked. Who, for instance, can point to one of this 
whole body that is not chock full of earnestness ? 
The brown thrush may be ever so light-hearted of 
a May morning, but a snatch of his song tells you 
that his life is made up of sterner business than 
mere song. On the other hand, bobolink, and 
some of the same stamp, jolly Epicureans as they 
are, seem to think that the chief end of existence 
is to be merry, and so rattle away on their summer 
lyres till every string is in a quiver, and the air 
overflows with liquid music. I am told also — I 
blush to repeat it— that the way the bobolink gor- 
mandizes in the southern rice swamps is a disgrace 
to good old Epicurus himself ; but when Robert 
departs for his winter vacation, he doffs that hand- 
some summer suit of black and buff for a coat of 
faded brown, which so alters his api^earance that 



BIRD-VOICES. 75 

no doubt lie congratulates himself on being per- 
fectly disguised amid his revels. ?^ot to probe 
deeper into such scandals as this, which do not 
concern the subject, the thrushes are of unques- 
tionable character — earnest, whole-hearted, and 
l^assionate. 

. Those who have heard the mocking-bird's song 
floating on the balmy breezes of the South claim 
the laurel for him : but I know him only through 
such translations as Lanier, Whitman, an i Maurice 
Thompson offer, the last having, in one case, asso- 
ciated him most happily with the Greek Sai)pho. 

Robin's blythe and gushing lyrics are too well 
known to need comment here. He is the Longfel- 
low of our Xew England hillsides, the poet-bird of 
the home. 

That trio of wood-dwellers, the hermit, Wilson's, 
and wood thrushes, more nearly reach the sublime 
than any others. Where could poet choose audi- 
ence-chambers for the recital of his verse that 
would approach in fitness to those in which we 
have sometimes paused to listen to the ringing 
melody of the hermit thrush ? It is amid the 
sturdy columns and lofty arches of the forest, 
remote from the town. The sun's last beams, 
mayhap, gild the shimmering suface of a lake full 
in your view, and, reflected, glow upon the tree 
trunks. What a hush has fallen upon the lake 
when the hermit bird mounts up to some unseen 
bower, and is about to render his evening hymn I 
Then his rustic pipe rings out its full notes, 
resounding with indescribable richness of tone, 



76 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

delicacy of modulation, and, withal, a serenity- 
equalled only by the tranquil surface of the lake. 
But we will pass from these Miltons of bird-song 
to some of the school of sparrows. 

Song-sparrow is the embodiment of all that is 
sprightly and melodious. Ere the meadows have 
begun to draw over them their green cloak of 
spring, he begins his varied idyls of spring-time. 
Xo other has such a variety of metres at command, 
and such vivacity in execution. The vesper-spar- 
row or grass-finch has a wonderful sweetness of 
expression ; the beautiful white-throated sparrow 
is the very echo of the wilderness, interpreted into 
a single sentence ; but both must yield the palm to 
the song-sparrow. To compare the English spar- 
row with him is to bring into comparison a pugi- 
list and a poet. 

But why continue the list ? Nature is inexhaust- 
ible ; and can one hope to read all, even the titles, 
of her pages ? The poet alone — and are we not all 
poets, though it may be mute ? — can comprehend 
the inner meaning of those wandering voices, 
which, silent while Nature sleeps beneath her 
mantle of snow, awake with her to load the balmy 
air of spring-time with their freightage of sweet 
song. 

J. 11, Gerouhl '90. 



TOWLE— A FANTASIE. 



''Towle!" Xo response. It was the first reci- 
tation of Freshman year, and the sharp-eyed tutor 
scanned the room with a look of pleasant curiosity. 
Day after day the summons rang out "Towlel" 
and no one responded. Finally we heard no more 
in that division, but in other recitations the pro- 
fessors were all calling " Towle! " At the begin- 
ning of each new subject they would call the name 
for a day or two, and then, finding that they met 
with no response, would cease. 

I fell to wondering what kind of a fellow Towle 
was. It was quite a common thing for men to take 
their examinations and not join the class till late 
in the fall, and I was constantly expecting to see 
him with us. Was he one of the pale, thoughtful 
kind, or a brawny athlete, bound to win many 
victories for our class, w^hicli was already showing 
such great prowess? Could he conjugate a Greek 
verb without a trij), or was he one of those slow, 
blundering men who take so long to recite, and 
yet often stand so high as royal good fellows? I 
did not usually pay much attention to the progress 
of a recitation in those days. I would rather spend 
my time in observation and revery. And, being 



78 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

naturally inclined to fancy, the idea of Towle's 
personality came upon me very forcibly. I would 
have him a fair, slight youth, with the most limpid 
of blue eyes, and brown hair with just the slightest 
suggestion of a curl in it. He would be courteous 
and gentlemanly, but retiring. His friendship, 
once formed, would be firm till death. I almost 
imagined myself walking with him in the glorious 
autumn twilight, and talking gaily of trivial mat- 
ters. Deep in my heart I could feel the peace and 
contentment of true friendship: for he would be a 
friend to me. Of course our own ideals should be 
pleasing to us, and, conversely, we pleasing to 
them. And then, of course, that unoccupied room 
just back of mine would be the one he would have. 
It looked just like the room for him. Retiring, 
and lighted from the north, it would be a fitting 
place for a close student, as he would certainly be. 
Such a cosey place would be the corner near the 
stove on a winter's night! I imagined how we 
would sit and chat by a cheerful fire, while the 
cold wind howled around the eaves. 



Week after week went on. It was the first day 
of Sophomore year. I had comi^letely forgotten 
my reveries about my imaginary friend, when, as 
we commenced a subject under a new professor, I 
heard him call the familiar name "Towlel" 
Those days were very busy, what with foot-ball 
rushes and other peculiar Sophomoric pursuits. 
I had moved to a new room, and, curiously enough. 



TOWLE—A FANTASIE. 79 

it in turn had a vacant room beside it ; and, still 
more curiously, this seemed just the room for my 
ideal of Towle. It was small and cosey, and I 
often visited it for its fine view over the Campus. 
All bare as it was, with a few disabled articles of 
furniture arranged around it, that room always 
possessed to me a peculiar personality, such as we 
often experience when we enter an apartment occu- 
pied by one we know well. Even the chairs, the 
old desk, and the broken-down stove, seemed to be 
articles of unusual modesty and virtue. In short, 
that room represented to me — Towle. 

How peculiar are our half-waking moments! 
We think thoughts absurd and sublime in the same 
instant; often lofty sounding words float through 
our minds, unaccompanied by thought of their 
sense or nonsense. It seems as if some of the 
faculties of the mind are more slow to awake than 
others, and leave their earlier arising companions 
to run riot in their absence. The mind works like 
a machine without a fly-wheel, now fast, now slow, 
and now absolutely stopped over some unforeseen 
obstruction. I was in such a state one morning, 
inwardly debating the advisability of cutting 
chapel, when I heard a clear, cheery voice, appar- 
ently coming from the very air of my room. 
"Hullo, old fellow!" it said; "you'll have to 
wait till I materialize. I 've just been promoted 
for good behavior, and now have the great honor 
of materialization at certain times. We ghosts 
have our honors and relative standings as well as 
you poor mortals." " Who are you ? " I asked, in 



8o DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

a very composed manner, such as we often show 
when we scarcely know what we ai^ doing. "I ? 
Why, I'm Towle's ghost," he replied. "Didn't 
you know me ? Why, I 've been having the pleas- 
antest times with you for the last year. Now you 
can see me and talk with me, thanks to my promo- 
tion." I now began to see a misty shape, with all 
the accompaniments of an ordinary ghost — death's 
head and all. I started, and shrank back in terror. 
Then I thought how it would hurt the feelings of 
the poor fellow if I showed the least repugnance, — 
so I commenced to engage him in conversation, 
asking him about affairs in Ghostdom, and about 
their general customs. I could not tell him any- 
thing strange, because he had been from the first a 
member of our class, and had attended all the reci- 
tations strictly. I remarked to him that I had 
often noticed vacant seats in the rooms where we 
happened to be ; and he replied that he invariably 
occupied one of them. He lamented his inability 
to recite, and said that the only trouble now would 
be the difficulty of making his hours of materiali- 
zation coincide with the hours of recitation. 

Those hours usually came in the night, and I 

jumped from my bed and rubbed my eyes to the 
sound of the chapel bell. No ghost was to be 
seen. 

That day I happened to stroll into the vacant 
room to watch a particularly interesting game of 
tennis that was going on. Lying on the battered 
table was a local paper of the year before, wrinkled 
by exposure to moisture, and coated with dust. I 



TO WLE—A FANTASIE. 8 1 

picked it up at random, and, guided by some mys- 
terious influence, my eye fell on the following 
notice : — 

Died in Weston, August 27, Benjamin I. Towle, aged 
18 :\ ears, 2 months. He was a graduate of Weston Acad- 
emy, and had taken his entrance examication to Stone- 
henge University. All his acquaintances mourn sincerely 
a youth of great promise. 

So there was a Towle, and he had intended to 
come to this very university, in fact, had been here 
to take his examinations. How hard it was for 
him to die and give up the brilliant future that he 
doubtless anticipated ! What wonder if his gentle 
spirit did inhabit the scenes of his anticipated 
honors I 



We were half through Junior year. Our annual 
banquet had been held the night before. Yet 
through it all ran an undercurrent of sorrow, for 
our class had just lost by death one of its brightest 
members, loved and admired by us all. At such 
times the spiritual world seems nearer to us, as 
our thoughts are drawn upward by thoughts of 
dear friends who perhaps already know the secrets 
that are hidden from our eyes. I sat in the Latin 
recitation, thinking of this. I was tired after the 
banquet, and leaned my head into a friendly cor- 
ner. By degrees there dawned upon my eyes the 
figure of my friend Towle, seated just a few settees 
in front of me. He gazed upon a book in rapt 
attention, now and then scanning the venerable 

4* 



82 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES, 

professor with a look of reverence as one whose 
spirit, so kind and gentle, was far above him. 
Evidently I was the only one who saw the appari- 
tion At last his hour of materialization coincided 
with the recitation. The professor was deeply 
engaged in some philosophical question raised by 
the passage, but soon he looked up to call my 
name. I arose and recited. Then I sat down. 
" Towle ! " w^as the next name called. The cold 
gray eyes of the instructor glanced around the 

room, and he called another name. I saw^ 

Towle no more; nor was his name called again 
during our course. But I have no doubt he gradu- 
ated with our class, and now holds a high position 
in Ghostdom. 

C. F. BoUnson '90, 




OLCOTT FALLS. 



THE LAST OF A LEGEND. 



In the days when the l^ew Hampshire railroads 
extended no farther north than Concord, and the 
Dartmouth student made the rest of his journey by 
stage, there stood a small tavern about half way 
between the village of West Lebanon and Hanover. 
It was a low-roofed, dark, forbidding house, where 
the stage-drivers never consented to pass the night 
if there was the slightest possibility of their being 
able to push on to the next station at Orford ; for, 
like many inns of that time, it had a story con- 
nected with it which made the superstitious prefer 
the familiar dangers of a drenching storm and a 
rain-washed road rather than the imaginary hor- 
rors of a night beneath its roof. 

A former owner of the tavern was suspected of 
having murdered a guest under circumstances of 
peculiar cruelty, torturing his victim to make him 
sign certain drafts in his favor, taking possession 
of the valuables about his person, and concealing 
all traces of his crime in the rapids of the Connec- 
ticut, v/hicli ran almost under his windows. In 
those rough times such deeds were not uncommon, 
inquiry was but superficial, and, as no strong evi- 
dence could be produced, the inn-keeper was never 



84 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

brought to trial. But, as was natural, tlie house 
was rather avoided thereafter, and little by little 
a story gained credence that suspicious sounds and 
sights had been observed by night about it, gradu- 
ally giving rise to hints of ghosts, which were 
eagerly repeated by the credulous farmers of the 
neighborhood ; and by the time that the railroad 
was extended to Wells River, and the stage route 
abandoned, no house on the route had a more 
unenviable reputation. 

Left to itself, the old inn gradually fell to pieces, 
and soon nothing was left but the moss-grown cel- 
lar and the hardy clump of lilacs standing guard 
beside the obliterated path. But, whether curious 
legends are more apt to be treasured up by college 
students, or whether they were too deeply imbed- 
ded in the minds of the neighbors to be effaced by 
the mere lapse of time, strange phenomena in rela- 
tion to the old tavern have been cropping out at 
intervals for the last twenty-five years. 

Interested by a classmate who had stumbled 
across one of these stories, toward the close of our 
Sophomore year, three of us students agreed to 
collect what material we could, and to investigate 
the cause of the appearances which had brought 
the neighborhood of the inn into such ill repute. 
We found our task much easier and more interest- 
ing than we could have anticipated. A little skil- 
ful questioning of the stable-men who are in the 
habit of driving students down to White River 
Junction to take the morning train, supplemented 
by a free-handed distribution of cheap cigars, 



THE LAST OF A LEGEND. 85 

sufficed to extract from different sources several 
narratives which bore a close resemblance to each 
other. These were still further confirmed by one 
of our professors, whom we visited of an evening, 
and purposely drew into a conversation about the 
legends of Xew Hampshire staging. 

Comparing the information which we received in 
this way with what we could learn from the farm- 
ers in the vicinity, and throwing aside what were 
evidently the exaggerations of the inventive narra- 
tors, we still retained a consistent story which we 
were greatly puzzled to explain. The facts as 
finally collected were these : 

Previous to 1875 nothing definite could be fixed 
upon, but in the spring of that year a Senior of the 
Chandler Department was driving from West Leb- 
anon to Hanover in company with a young lady 
whom he had escorted to an entertainment. It 
was about half past twelve when they rounded 
the curve at the foot of Bald hill which brings one 
in sight of the rapids at Olcott's Falls. The road 
in this spot is sandy ; the horse was walking 
slowly ; nothing could be heard but the roar of the 
little brook which crosses the road some hundred 
yards ahead, and which, swollen by the recent 
rains, was hurrying down to the river below. Sud- 
denly, just as the carriage came abreast of the 
clump of lilacs which marks the position of the old 
tavern cellar, there was heard a noise in the woods 
at the right like the sharp cry of a child in distress. 
The horse reared all in a tremble, gave a fright- 
ened snort, and, despite the whip of the driver. 



86 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

refused to stir. The cry was repeated near at 
hand, and the short, thick-set figure of a man, 
wearing a dark cap and a long, gray overcoat, 
darted from the shrubbery, and, passing under the 
raised hoofs of the nearly frantic horse, crossed the 
road and seemed to sink out of sight in the field 
beyond. Instantly the horse began to run, and was 
not gotten under control until Mink brook was 
passed and the long hill just outside the village 
half ascended. 

In 1878, two members of the Greek-letter frater- 
nities, returning unusually early from an initiation 
banquet, had an experience almost identical with 
this. One of them, who was considered the best 
pistol-shot of the college, had a revolver with him, 
and discharged three chambers at the shrieking 
figure, apparently with no result. 

From this time we were able to trace the succes- 
sive repetitions of this occurrence, at periods more 
or less varied, up to the very spring of 1888, just 
one month before we began our investigations. 
The phenomena of the diiferent appearances were 
almost always the same. They took place upon a 
warm, moonlight night, between twelve and one 
o'clock : first the cries were noticed, then the 
extreme terror of the horse, and finally the short, 
thick-set figure, always dressed in the same way, 
and passing close at hand in front. The sud- 
den disappearance, too, of the figure was often 
remarked. 

To account for these appearances we framed 
different hypotheses but none seemed wholly satis- 



THE LAST OF A LEGEND. 87 

factory. The common story was, that the old inn- 
keeper, nnable to rest in his grave on account of 
the crime he had committed, revisited the scene of 
his misdeeds at the time of every full moon, and 
appeared to the first person who passed after 
twelve o'clock on that night. This, of course, we 
were wholly unwilling to believe. Whatever faults 
the college student may have, superstition is not 
often one of them, and yet we could not conceive of 
any human being's amusing himself by preying 
upon the fears of his fellows, and exposing himself 
to the probability of being shot for his pains ; 
besides, if the appearance was human, why should 
the horse have feared it ? 

We felt that we could not solve the riddle with- 
out some personal experience, and, as one of us 
was soon called to Boston, we decided to meet him 
at the Junction upon his return by the midnight 
train, hoping that, as the time of the month was 
most favorable, we might meet with an adventure. 

Leaving Hanover early in the evening, we drove 
down to the brook near the scene of action, and 
fastened our horse while we made an examination 
of the land on both sides of the road. It was still 
light, and the most careful scrutiny revealed noth- 
ing suspicious. Just above the road was a thicket 
of dense shrubbery, succeeded by a grove of pines 
reaching half way to the top of the hill. The little 
brook had worn for itself a ravine, some ten feet 
lower than the surrounding country, and at the 
bottom of this it bubbled along over a ledge of 
dark slate, occasionally relieved by a patch of 



^^ DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

golden gravel. We examined the soft banks for 
footsteps, but found none. The branches of the 
trees seemed unbroken, and among the bushes 
there was no sign of any recent disturbance. 
Below the road, toward the Connecticut, was an 
open field, where was the cellar of the old tavern 
and a pile of brick, probably a part of the materials 
of the chimney. Toward the north the ground 
became more abrupt, and for a considerable dis- 
tance a rail ran along the side of the road to guard 
against the possibility of an accident. Behind the 
field was a scant grove of pines, and beyond, the 
rapids of the river. Here, again, we found no 
marks of the presence of man. Pushing down to 
the shore, we watched the hurrying stream, and 
the great logs tossed like straws by their waves. 
The inn-keeper certainly could never have found a 
safer place to conceal his crime. 

As it began to grow dark we returned to the 
wagon, and drove slowly on to the Junction. 
Although our search thus far had been fruitless, 
the uncanny game we were playing could but 
excite our nerves, and the innumerable cigarettes 
we consumed during our long four-hours wait 
failed to produce the soothing effect commonly 
attributed to tobacco. 

Happily the train was on time, and our courage 
rose again at the merry jokes of our friend, who 
had not been subjected to the depressing influence 
of that lonely hunt in the woods. For a reason 
which we would have found difficult to explain if 
our minds had been directed to its folly, we were 



THE LAST OF A LEGEND. 89 

all armed with revolvers, and, as we left the vil- 
lage, we examined them carefully by the light of 
the moon, and assured ourselves that they were in 
good order. 

Gradually we grew more quiet as the spell of the 
beautiful evening came over us, and we were rid- 
ing in complete silence when we reached the woods 
and slowly wound up the hill through the sand. 
As we turned at the curve and saw the well known 
river bathed in moonlight, we stopped a moment 
and listened. Strain our ears as we might, we 
could detect only the roar of the rapids, the drowsy 
hum of the night insects, and the whispering nee- 
dles of the pines. Just as we were about to start 
on, our horse suddenly reared and snorted. Our 
hearts rose in our throats, as at the same instant 
we heard a weird, half-human shriek, and from the 
bushes close beside us there bounded a short, 
dusky figure, and leaped across the road before our 
trembling horse. Instantly forgetting all the dic- 
tates of reason, we drew our pistols and fired. The 
reverberating echoes seemed to mock us, the fig- 
ure disappeared, and our horse started home on 
the run. Unable to control him, and, in fact, 
hardly caring to make the attempt, we hurried on, 
and reached Hanover, in a strained and excited 
condition, about one o'clock. It was four before 
w^e calmed down enough to sleep, and then only to 
repeat in our dreams the experiences of the last 
few" hours. 

The daylight brought with it a renewed sense of 
security, and it was with more or less shame that 



90 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES, 

we came together in the morning to endeavor to 
account for our sudden fright at the gratification 
of our desires. Hoping that a visit to the scene of 
our unreasoning terror might throw a little light 
upon its cause, we cut our ten o'clock recitations, 
and plodded wearily over the three miles of dilsty 
road which had seemed so short in our flight of the 
preceding night. The indistinct outline and dusky 
shapes, which had given such beauty to the land- 
scape by night, resolved themselves into the pro- 
saic fences and sheds of the land-poor New Hamp- 
shire farmer. Under the glare of day, no place 
seemed more unromantic than the hot, sandy stretch 
of road, bordered by disheartened-looking trees, 
where our hearts had beaten so fast the night before. 
Disgusted with ourselves, and with the sudden 
feeling of superstitious terror which had made us 
so comj^letely lose our wits, we were about to 
return after only a hasty examination of the neigh- 
borhood, when one of us chanced to espy a drop of 
blood on a leaf, and close beside it a broken trail 
through the bushes. Not daring to conjecture 
what this might mean, we anxiously followed 
the footprints. They led straight on through 
the bushes, down suddenly over the steep bank, 
and lost themselves in the hard ground beneath 
the pines. Following the general direction, we ran 
on through the woods and hastened to the bank of 
the river. A fluttering bit of cloth caught our eyes 
on the shore down-stream. With fearful hearts 
we hurried to it, and saw the whole result of our 
mad adventure. 



THE LAST OF A LEGEND. 9 1 

Grasping a bit of driftwood in his clenched hand, 
with his face distorted as though in terrible pain, 
and his unclosed eyes turned full against the blaz- 
ing sun, lay the body of an old man. His shirt was 
soaked in blood from an ugly hole in his side. A 
little pool had formed beneath him of the water 
with which he had bathed his wound before the 
death agony came upon him. In his broad shoul- 
ders and emaciated limbs, his light hair and grisly 
moustache, and the look of vacuity which his face 
still wore, though distorted in death, we recognized 
a half-witted old man from whom we had often 
bought apples and cider in our walks towards 
Lyme ; while the heavy overcoat beneath him, and 
the dark cap which we found after a search among 
the brush, left no doubt as to his identity with the 
figure which had so terrified us the night before. 

What could have brought him all the distance 
from his lonely house to play the ghost for belated 
travellers in this quiet spot ? That is a question 
which only his ow^n diseased mind could answer. 
In silence we closed his eyes, and withdrew to the 
woods to discuss what was to come next. But one 
course seemed open to us. Raising the stiif fig- 
ure, we wrapped it in the overcoat, bound it about 
with cords, filled the pockets with pebbles, and 
carried it to the water's edge where the current 
was running swiftest. With a great heave w^e 
threw it far out into the river. The rapids caught 
it, tossed it once aloft, dripping with spray, then 
hurried it down out of sight beneath the raging 
waters. 



92 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

We stood on the shore watching the spot where 
it had disappeared. The blazing sun beat down 
with vertical rays upon the heated sands. A crow 
flew across the heavens with strident croak. The 
whistle of the mills above called the tired 
workmen to an hour's rest. The river flowed on, 
happy and smiling as before, calmly oblivious of 
the tragedy it concealed beneath its heaving breast. 

C. A. Perkins '90. 



HANOVER'8 BOW IN LITERATURE. 



The "Memoirs of Stephen Burroughs" was 
undoubtedly the first bound book published in 
this town. It was "Printed at Hanover, IN^ew 
hampshire, by Benjamin True," in 1798. There 
is probably but one copy of this first edition here, 
and it is an admirable and highly interesting spec- 
imen of old-time typography. A second edition 
was published in N'ew York in 1811, and a third 
in Philadelphia in 1848. Burroughs was his own 
biographer, and wrote the sketch of his life to a 
friend in twenty-eight separate letters, which form 
the chapters of the book. He began writing them 
in 1794, when twenty-nine years of age. 

One cannot help feeling that the author exag- 
gerated his woes and adventures to make a sizable 
volume and an interesting story, although in his 
first sentence he wrote, — "In relating the facts of 
my life to you I shall endeavor to give as simple 
an account of them as I am able without coloring 
or darkening any circumstance." Here and there 
he wandered off into a long ethical discussion. 
Some of these discussions are bearable, while 
others are exceedingly ridiculous, especially when 
you consider the character of the writer. Some 



94 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

of his views must have been quite anarchical 
for those times. His style was very flowery and 
often pedantic. Many poetical quotations head 
the chapters, and are scattered along through to 
show the author's learning and fill up the space. 
There are also a large number of letters, some of 
which are interesting. 

Stephen was the son of a Presbyterian clergy- 
man, Eden Burroughs, who lived in Hanover, and 
was for forty years — from 1773 to 1813 — a trustee 
of Dartmouth college. He was a man of great in- 
tegrity and much learning, and Burroughs wrote, — 
"Were any to expect merit from their parentage, 
I might justly look for that merit." Stephen's 
thirst for amusement at anybody's expense was 
insatiable, and, though reared under strictest dis- 
cipline, he very early developed traits which made 
him by unanimous declaration the worst boy in 
town. He relates one incident to show what kind 
of fun he liked. A neighbor of his father had a 
fine yard of watermelons which had been disturbed 
for three or four successive nights. The old man 
being of a hasty, petulant disposition, determined 
to watch his melons with a club and beat the thief. 
One night he took his stand in a convenient place 
for watching, unknown to anybody. Burroughs 
becoming by accident acquainted with the old 
man's situation, and suspecting his intentions, 
went to one of his sons, a young man of about 
twenty, and told him that he had seen a man in 
the melon-patch whom he suspected to be the 
thief, and advised him to go cautiously to the yard, 



HANOVER'S BOW IN LITERATURE 95 

and perhaps he might catch him. So the young 
man went, but no sooner was he in the yard than 
his father, supposing him to be the thief, rushed 
from his hiding-place and severely handled the 
poor fellow before he found out his mistake. " This 
scene of merriment," said Stephen, "I enjoyed to 
the full." 

Such scenes he continued to bring about, enjoy, 
and be punished for, until his fourteenth year, 
when he determined to seek pleasure and fame in 
the army. At the time a regiment of Continental 
forces was passing through the country; so he 
enlisted in an artillery company, attending the 
regiment, as a private soldier. His father, how- 
ever, frustrated his plans by obtaining his dis- 
charge and taking him home. He ran away from 
home again: his father took him back. A third 
time he joined the regiment, and enlisted under 
an officer who, when his father came to demand 
him, left Stephen to choose between going and 
staying, and he, of course, chose to stay with the 
regiment. But he was soon tired of military life, 
so he decamped for Hanover, and his father wrote 
to General Washington to obtain his discharge. 

Soon after this he was placed under the care of 
Rev. Joseph Huntington, a noted instructor of 
those times, who was also a trustee of Dartmouth. 
With him he stayed a year, until he was fitted for 
college, and it was a year much fuller of mischief 
than of classical study. He was admitted to Dart- 
mouth in 1781. Here he had a wider field for 
action. Reports of his eccentricities had preceded 



9^ DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

him, and all tlie boys awaited an outbreak; but he 
disappointed them for some time, as he had deter- 
mined to do. One story of his college life is es- 
pecially good. The Indians were at this time 
making inroads upon the frontier settlements, and 
it was feared that they would make a descent upon 
Hanover and burn the college and adjacent build- 
ings, so that the minds of people were full of fear 
and aroused by the slightest alarm. One evening 
Burroughs and several companions determined to 
visit a melon-patch in the vicinity. When they 
had helped themselves, they separated to more 
easily get back to their rooms without being de- 
tected, as it was against the rules to leave one's 
room at night. When Burroughs came upon the 
campus he saw a man waiting in front of his door, 
evidently suspecting his absence; so he turned to 
take a less direct route around the buildings and 
avoid him; but the man had seen him and started 
in pursuit. Burroughs and one who was with him 
rolled up their gowns and tucked them upon their 
backs, that they might run easily. Their pursuer 
began hallooing, and, sensible that they would be 
caught unless they were soon out of the way, they 
turned a short corner and got back to their rooms 
undiscovered. The man kept hallooing until the 
boys, Burroughs among them, went out to see 
what was the matter. He told them that he had 
found two men carrying packs on their backs lurk- 
ing about the town, and that they were probably 
spies from the Indians, for they had fled on seeing 
him. The town was alarmed, the militia turned 



HANOVER'S BOW IN LITERATURE. 97 

out, the woods were scoured, but nothing could be 
found. The next morning there began to be a 
suspicion that some of the boys had been play- 
ing a trick, and the suspicion fastened upon Bur- 
roughs, who saw how things were going, and has- 
tened to the man whose melons had been taken, 
and told him that since he knew that he sold mel- 
ons, he had taken some late the night before with- 
out disturbing him, and had now come to pay him 
for them. The man was satisfied with pay, and 
gave him a receipted bill. Burroughs was straight- 
way summoned before college authority, tried, and 
was about to be disciplined, when he arose and in a 
short speech justified his being out of his room, 
produced the receipted bill for the melons, and 
was therefore acquitted. 

He left college in the middle of sophomore year, 
and determined to go to sea. He went to New- 
buryport, Mass., and engaged to go as doctor on a 
packet bound for France. The voyage was an ex- 
citing one. Among other adventures was a hard 
fight with a privateer. He soon decided that a 
little of that kind of life was enough for him, and 
returned to Hanover. After a short stay he started 
out to visit relatives in Massachusetts and Con- 
necticut, and, if possible, find employment. On 
the way his slender resources became exhausted, 
and at Pelham, Mass., where he heard that a min- 
ister was wanted, he made application, under a 
false name, for a place to preach. He was hired 
for four Sundays at five dollars a Sunday. At the 
end of that time he was liked, and hired for eleven 



98 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

Sundays more. He drew his pay in advance, as 
he was greatly in need of the money. Near the 
close of his contract the real name and character 
of the minister became known in Pelham. and 
there was great indignation. Burroughs fled out 
of the town, but the inhabitants pursued. At last 
he sought refuge in a barn, and mounted the hay- 
mow to have an advantagous position for meeting 
their assault. The crowd filled the barn, and de- 
manded that he go back and vindicate his conduct, 
but especially preach the other sermon for which 
they had paid him, for there was one more due 
them. He obtained silence, and, without stopping 
for any vindication of conduct, proceeded to get 
even with the Pelhamites by delivering from the 
mow his farewell sermon. 

It was also told of Burroughs, though he denied 
the story, that he once engaged to preach for a 
minister, put up at the minister's house, borrowed 
his clothes and his watch that he might not sit up 
too late Saturday night preparing his sermon, and 
that Sunday morning no clothes, watch, or Bur- 
roughs were to be found, but at the head of a sheet 
of paper, as though the text on which he was about 
to write, was, — " Ye shall seek me early, and shall 
not find me." 

He next entered a counterfeiting scheme, which 
ended in three years' imprisonment at Northamp- 
ton and Castle Island. He made several desperate 
and almost successful attempts to escape, but had 
to endure the full measure of his sentence. After 
his release he secured a position as teacher at 



HANOVER'S BOW IN LITERATURE. 99 

Charlton, Mass., and married. Here he conducted 
himself with honor for some time, and enjoyed 
friends and a competence; but misfortune again 
overtook him, and he was thrown into jail. He 
escaped, however, to Long Island, where he en- 
gaged in teaching for several years. 

Here the narrative of this curious old book ends. 
From a note by the publisher of the second edi- 
tion, and other sources, it is found that Burroughs 
afterwards returned to Hanover, where he lived 
with his father until a disagreement arose between 
them, when he went to Canada and revived his 
old trade of counterfeiting. Later in life, having 
reformed, he joined the Koman Catholic Church, 
and supported himself by teaching the sons of 
wealthy Canadians, at his home in Three Kivers, 
until his death in 1840. 

C. M. Smith '91. 

LOFC. 



HOW HAKKY OBTAIXED HIS "SCOOP/ 



Christmas Eve — and everybody happy except 
Murphy and Harry Smith. In fact Murphy never 
was happy, and never had been since, when a dirty 
baby, he had rolled and fought with other dirty 
babies in the gutters of the sixth ward; and, as 
Murphy was decidedly a bad lot, he h>id no pros- 
pect of being happy in the future. Harry Smith, 
however, always had been happy, and expected to 
be happy again sometime, but on this particular 
Christmas Eve he felt very blue and dreadfully 
lonesome. 

Murphy had made all his arrangements, and was 
only waiting the time appointed for the carrying 
out of a particularly daring crime. He was hungry 
and ugly, and looked so miserable as he stood 
scowling under the electric light, that Harry could 
not help observing him. "I believe, I really be- 
lieve that he is more down on his luck than I am," 
he muttered, and from a sudden impulse he joined 
the man. " Hungry?" he said. 

"Yes," said Murphy. 

"Come along," continued Harry. Murphy was 
so surprised that he followed without a word, and 
in a few minutes Harry ushered him into a bare, 
cheerless room. 







\ 



M. P. THOMPSON '92. 



HOW HARRY OBTAINED HIS '* SCOOP.'' lOI 

" Sit down," said Harry. Murphy did so, watch- 
ing Harry with a dazed look as he set out some 
food on the table. Murphy understood this at any 
rate, and, as he devoured it, Harry watched him 
with a sort of admiration, he was such a perfect 
specimen of the criminal class. 

" What did you do this for? " said Murphy, as he 
finished. 

"Well," said his host, "I got turned off the 
Chronicle to-night with the fatherly advice of the 
editor not to show myself in the office till I knew 
what news was. I haven't a cent in the world, 
and, as you looked about as I felt, I concluded to 
give myself the satisfaction of gazing at you for 
a while." Murphy grinned, and said nothing. 

"Smoke?" said Harry. 

The grin broadened, and for some minutes re- 
porter and convict smiled in silence. 

"How do you live?" the young man asked. 

This was a puzzler for Murphy, who had a dim 
idea that only the people on the avenue lived, so 
he scratched his head and remained silent. 

" I really do not see how I am going to get along," 
continued Harry, "unless maybe I can get a ' scoop ' 
on something, and get back into the old man's good 
graces." 

Murphy looked up at the young fellow with a 
queer expression on his hard old face, and said, as 
he rose, "Good-night; I've got an appointment 
with the governor, so I guess I'll be going so's to 
have time to put on my dress suit." 

"Good-night," said Harry, laughing. 



I02 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

After a while Harry went to bed, feeling, it must 
be confessed, rather disconsolate; while outside, 
the throng of Christmas buyers in the glittering 
shops grew less and less until not one was left. 
And at midnight, as the bells on the churches sent 
their tones out among the snowflakes that had just 
begun to fall all over the city, he had a dream, in 
wliich his late disreputable guest appeared as Santa 
Claus, and pelted him with gold pieces. Some hit 
him, but the majority fell on the table and on the 
floor with a terrible clatter. Louder and louder 
grew the noise, until Harry, waking, sprang from 
the bed, to find some one knocking on the door. 

"What's the matter?" he called. 

"If you won't give me away, I'll let you have 
the 'scoop' you've been wishing for," came the 
voice of Murphy. 

Quick to think and to act, Harry, after a mo- 
ment's hesitation, replied, "Go ahead! " and Mur- 
phy, in hurried, anxious tones, told the story of 
his night's crime, while Harry listened intently, 
scarcely breathing as he realized that the story 
told by the man at the door would be the greatest 
newspaper sensation of the season, and meant rep- 
utation and employment for himself. 

As Murphy finished and turned to rush down the 
stairs, Harry called out, "I'm no end sorry, of 
course, about the bank and the gagged cashier and 
all the rest of it, but I'm much obliged all the 
same, and I hope you won't get caught." 

The editor of the Chronicle fairly hugged Harry 
as he brought in his news at four in the morning, 



HOW HARRY OBTAINED HIS ''SCOOP.'' I03 

just before the forms were locked. *'Why," said 
he, **even the police won't know of this till they 
read it in the Chronicled 

But to this day the editor wonders how on earth 
Harry obtained that news; and another thing that 
puzzles him is why Harry sends every Christmas 
Day a big turkey to a disreputable old convict, 
down on the island, called Murphy. And though 
he continues to wonder for years and years, till 
his eyes are dim and his hair gray, and until Harry 
succeeds him as an editor, he will never find out. 

M. P. Thompson '92 



ONE EVENING. 



I had returned from a hard day's canvassing, 
heated, dusty, and weary. Mile after mile I had 
tramped over the rough, hilly country roads, re- 
hearsing to the farmers, or the farmers' wives, the 
story, grown unutterably wearisome after a month's 
continuous repetition, of my paragon of books, 
" The Perfect Manual of Etiquette : endorsed by 
President Harrison and lady, ex-President Cleve- 
land and lady, Mr. and Mrs. W. M. Thackeray, and 
Mr. William McGlory : patterned largely after the 
work by Madame Chauviniere, the queen of Paris- 
ian society ; used all over this broad land, in the 
salons of Washington, and at Koster & Bial's ; 
priEted on cream laid paper, with fifteen genuine 
steel engravings ! no cheap tin-types in this work," 
etc., etc. Mayhap, gentle reader, you have been 
there, too. 

Supper was over, and I was sitting on the front 
porch of one of those solid, spacious old New Eng- 
land farm-houses, yearly growing scarcer, enjoying 
a soothing smoke, chatting with my host, anon 
looking over the great meadow through which 
flowed a rivulet, — a sinuous ribbon of silver. 

The operatives of the little shoe factory were 



ONE EVENING. I05 

wending their way homeward just as the train 
came in. In a few moments there appeared in the 
road a troop, some thirty, of nondescripts, clad in 
rags, with raven hair and olive complexions, talk- 
ing away volubly, and seemingly regarding the 
country with disfavor. These swarthy sons of 
Italy were humble wielders of the pickaxe and 
spade, to work on the new road just being built. 
They bundled themselves into waiting wagons, 
and, to the fright of the country boy who was to 
drive them to their destination and who had been 
brought to regard "dagoes" as ipso facto assas- 
sins, broke into song just as the horses started. 
Mayhap it was the sense of physical comfort, may- 
hap my frame of mind, but as I sat there and looked 
out at the hills of Epsom browned by summer 
heats but showing blue-gray through the mellow 
haze, I thought I had never heard such music be- 
fore, and I doubted if I ever should again. Their 
rich voices, blending in perfect unison and time, 
rang far out into the twilight, and the sweet, clear 
tones of an exquisite tenor were indeed "linked 
sweetness, long drawn out." They passed from 
sight, but from afar I could hear the glorious mel- 
ody as it floated over the little hamlet. Gradually 
the music, rich and soft, faded away : but, sons of 
the peninsula, I knew that the recollection of that 
sudden burst of truest music could not fade from 
memory. 

Barron Shirley '92. 
5* 



THAT BACHELORS' CLUB. 



''The Bear Swamp Bachelors' Chib" was what 
they named it. A constitution and by-laws were 
drawn up, and an iron-clad oath appended. The 
oath read as follows : "Believing that the so-called 
gentler sex have, since the days of Eve, been the 
enticers of men and a hindrance to the progress of 

the race, I, , in the presence of these 

witnesses, do solemnly agree to avoid, shun, and 
in every way possible manifest a righteous disdain 
for, each and every representative of said sex ; — so 
help me Jupiter." Elijah Titcomb, the orator of 
the Club, who had recently read several volumes 
exposing the horrors of Free Masonry, said, amid 
thundering applause, — 

"J/}'. President and Gentlemen : This oath is tame, 
insipid, and illy adapted to the requirements of 
this organization. The Masons, the Odd Fellers, 
the Knights of Pityus, and what not, who have to 
guard only against the mashinations of their feller- 
men in pants, all have oaths, — double-ribbed, iron- 
clad, steel-rimmed, and bolted at the corners, — 
while we, who have declared open war on the 
wiliest, most insidious foes of men that this round 
globe can boast of, — foes in whose hands men are 




W. C. BELKNAP '92. 



THAT BACHELORS' CLUB. lOj 

fools and kings and princes but playthings, — we 
have protected ourselves and our Club by an oath 
unworthy of the name. Why not sprinkle in a few 
of those choice phrases by which secret orders of 
the highest standing inspire awe and ensure obedi- 
ence ? such as, ' May a bolt from heaven rend me ! ' 
' May I have my throat slit from ear to ear ! ' ' Have 
my tongue torn out by the roots ! ' et seterah. I 
say the oath is inadequate." 

This outburst of persuasive eloquence carried 
conviction to the hearts of all, and the Club was 
just on the point of revising the oath, when the 
opinion of Oklahoma Jones, that "A man who 
could not be trusted on his honor would not be im- 
proved by subscribing to all the oaths in Christen- 
dom," prevailed, and the oath as presented was 
approved. 

This famous Club comprised all the farm hands 
and heirs prospective of the Bear Swamp district 
who had ever been jilted, or otherwise had suffered 
a grievance at the hands of the rural damsels of 
the neighborhood. Mr. Alphonso Drew, a college 
chap who was helping the Smiths hay, was also 
admitted, although his credentials were hardly 
satisfactory, and the opinion was several times 
expressed that he had been taken on too short 
acquaintance. 

The Club flourished for two weeks in glorious 
style, presenting a solid front to the wiles of the 
''girls," and disturbed by no internal dissensions. 
So like the historic bundle of rods was it bound to- 
gether by a common purpose and determination, 



Io8 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

that more than one fair maiden began to repent of 
her former fickleness and indifference. What 
should they do on the Fourth of July, with nobody 
to buy them candy or to hold their parasols? How 
could they enjoy the beauties of the fire-works, 
with no one to protect them from the chilly night? 
And then, how strange it seemed for all the "fel- 
lers to sit through the entire Sunday-school, not 
encouraging one by so much as a sly wink, listen- 
ing with heart and soul to the teacher's dry disser- 
tation on the sins of Absalom ! " Handkerchiefs 
were dropjDcd accidentally, and smiles played spon- 
taneously about rosy lips, but all to no purpose. 
"Oh, this is terrible ! " one dear girl of the affec- 
tionate sort was heard to sigh. "lean never en- 
dure it." "Pshaw!" chimed her comj^anion, "I 
guess I can stand it as long as they can." Thus, 
while there was division in the camp of the enemy, 
the members of the Club stood as one man to what 
they considered a Christian obligation. But evil 
days w^ere in store for them, wherein was to be 
tested to the uttermost the strength of human res- 
olution under unfavorable circumstances. 

"Who is she?" "Who is she?" every one was 
asking, when, a week later, the benediction had 
been pronounced and the usual crowd of bumpkins 
had gathered on the corner. But nobody knew. 
Just then Elijah Titcomb put in an appearance, 
and all eyes were turned toward the orator. 
"Know?" said "Lije," with a proud toss of the 
head. "Why, she's a New York gal, a niece of 
Mrs. Amelia Smith's, and an actress, up here for a 



THAT BACHELORS' CLUB. IO9 

four weeks vacation." "An actress ! " echoed the 
crowd, whose knowledge of such a phenomenon 
was limited to a glimpse of a cigarette picture 
which Tommy Stubbs, the tough of the neighbor- 
hood, had once displayed with considerable gusto. 
Then followed questioning and cross-questioning, 
but the verdict may be tersely expressed in that 
serviceable phrase, "She's a stunner ! " 

Yes, Mademoiselle Henrietta Melody made her 
debut in Bear Swamp on that memorable Sabbath. 
She came sweeping down the aisle, like a creature 
of fancy, just as the minister was reading the first 
hymn. For the remainder of the service, she, and 
not the pulpit, was the centre of interest. Such a 
dress and such a hat had never before been seen 
within the four walls of the church. Gloves and a 
silk handkerchief, and a real gold watch, too ! 
Then those eyes, and that heavenly smile I Several 
jealous worshippers on the back seats, who w^ere 
looking through their fingers, swore that she actu- 
ally flirted during prayer-time with Mr. Alphonso 
Drew, who, it will be remembered, was haying for 
the Smiths and therefore had a right to sit in the 
family pew. "That comes of admitting a man 
before you know his pints," observed Oklahoma 
Jones. Then what a commotion there was when 
the service was finished. The charming Etta, 
hanging on her dear auntie's arm, asked for an 
introduction to everybody, and tried very hard to 
make lasting impressions. She even made advan- 
ces to several bashful members of the club who 
were standing in one corner and casting furtive 



no DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

glances, but ostensibly talking of the hay crop. 
Thus were the seeds of dissension sown ; while a 
bevy of abused girls rejoiced, and remarked to one 
another, " How are the mighty falling ! " 

Mother Gossip soon noticed that the rustic 
youths of the vicinity were very prolific of excuses^ 
for calling at Mrs. Amelia Smith's, and it was 
rumored that none of them ever stopped, even for 
five minutes, without an opportunity to converse 
with Miss Henrietta. *' She was so cosmopolitan," 
as she herself put it. Now Mr. Alphonso Drew 
had said complacently, — "Look at me, a college 
Sophomore, the product of superior advantages. 
These rural clowns don't stand the ghost of a 
show." But this self -poised autocrat soon learned 
to his sorrow that the beaming Henrietta did not 
scruple to give the " go-by " to a half dozen, him- 
self included, and then accept favors at the hands 
of the seventh. 

Elijah Titcomb was under- sized, had warts on 
his hands and ears, and, like all orators, being an 
ardent patriot, had suffered the misfortune of hav- 
ing the skin of his face filled with powder on the 
previous Fourth, thus giving him a mottled 
appearance something like the hue of a moldy 
brass kettle. He was, as newspapermen say, well 
acquainted with the local field," but the world 
beyond the horizon, as seen from the village post- 
office, was to him a wonderland. A specimen con- 
versation between him and Miss Henrietta Melody 
is given for the edification of the reader : 

"Yes, Mr. Titcomb, it was on a superb evening 



THAT BACHELORS' CLUB. 1 1 1 

just like this that the Kussian princess and I, hav- 
ing supped at Delmonico's, started for Broadway- 
en route for the Metropolitan opera-house. By 
the way, I suppose you don't have the opportunity 
to hear many first-class operas here in Bear 
Swamp ? " 

"Wa-al, I don't know. There was the one- 
armed drummer and his monkey as performed at 
the school-house." 

" Oh, well, Mr. Titcomb, I don't mean that class 
of shows, fit only for vulgar and plebeian tastes. 
I refer to those masterpieces, patronized by the 
four hundred, wherein harmony and pathos are 
the handmaids of art. But perhaps you are not an 
admirer of such compositions ?" 

"Yes, I used to be quite a hand for composi- 
tions." 

"Pardon me, Mr. Titcomb, pardon the thought- 
less insinuation. I ought to have known from 
your appearance and conversation that you are a 
dilettante. Yes, art and I have been coquetting, 
off and on, these several years ; and you and I 
can claim fellowship as kindred spirits, can't we, 
Mr. Titcomb?" 

This last was said with a smile that caused poor 
"Lije's" heart to strike his palate at a single 
bound. 

As the time for departure drew near, Mrs. Amelia 
Smith issued invitations to the young people of the 
neighborhood to an afternoon tea to be given in 
honor of Miss Melody. The heroine of the even- 
ing never seemed more "cosmopolitan." The 



112 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

youths of Bear Swamp were out in force, and 
every mother's son of them received a share of 
attention and a shower of smiles that caused their 
foolish hearts to thump with emotion, and led 
each one to believe that he was favored above all 
the rest. To one she talked of hi^h life in the 
metropolis ; to another, of her acquaintance with 
the Earl of Derby ; and to a third she merrily 
chatted of the psychological subtleties of Brown- 
ing. 

As a grand finale for this delightful occasion, 
the heroiiie announced that she had arranged a 
parlor theatrical. Miss Henrietta Melody was 
hero, martyr, stage-manager, and manipulator of 
the curtain. The gaping audience swallowed their 
inherited aversion to the stage, and forgot the 
pious injunctions of their Sabbath-school teacher, 
as they followed the fortunes of the character with 
bated breath. When affairs had reached such a 
pass^ that, as Oklahoma Jones expressed it, "a 
feller could n't hold in much longer and not bust ; " 
when the heroine, having lost faith in God and 
man, dejec ted and despondent, had drawn the 
glittering dagger and was holding the accursed 
steel on high as though about to plunge it into her 
heaving bosom, — a pale young man with city airs 
appeared at the parlor door, and in a thrilling voice 
cried, "Forbear, forbear ! I am coming, darling," 
and then rushed madly forward just in time to 
catch the fainting Henrietta and carry her behind 
the falling curtain. 

Mr. Alphonso Drew, who, because of the supe- 



THAT BACHELORS' CLUB. II3 

rior advantages he had enjoyed, was somewhat 
skeptical, declared that he saw the heroine and 
her savior enjoying a tete-a-tete behind the cur- 
tain as though nothing had happened. 

The members of the Bachelors' Club, having 
broken their oaths and brought disgrace on their 
order, and seeing the necessity of blaming some 
one, stoutly maintain to this day that the whole 
affair was planned by the girls, who took this 
underhanded way of paying off old scores. How- 
ever that may be. Miss Henrietta Melody and the 
pale city chap left the Bear Swamp district on the 
next day, nor have they visited it since. 

W. C. Belknap '92. 



FATHER PAUL AND HIS MULE PETER. 



Many, many years ago, in that misty time of 
which we read so much and know so little, the 
Middle Ages, there stood on the banks of the 
muddy Rhine two great castles, — Donster and 
Conster. 

Donster stood on the top of a crag that, beetling 
and black, rose from the very edge of the water, 
while Conster reared its grim stone walls and loop- 
holed towers on the summit of a grassy hill that 
stood at some half mile's distance from the river's 
side. 

To the lords of these fastnesses, along with their 
proud names and ancient blood, had descended a 
feud, bitter and savage, that filled the whole valley 
with riot and confusion. 

But at length Baron Karl, the owner of Conster, 
determined by a last grand effort to drive out for- 
ever the insolent brood, who for so long had cast 
shame and insult in his teeth, from its raven's nest 
across the water. So for days and weeks his mes- 
sengers had travelled far and wide into all the 
states of Germany, inviting the baron's friends to 
come up with spear and shield, horse and retainer, 
and help him. And, being true knights and brave 



FATHER PAUL AND HIS MULE PETER. I I 5 

gentlemen, and withal fond of a good figlit for its 
own sake, they all hastened to obey the summons. 
Meanwhile the people of Donster had not been idle 
in girding themselves for the struggle, and their 
couriers had gone riding fast and hard to rally 
Count and Margrave from hill and valley to the 
rescue of the orange flag with the black raven that 
had for so long floated proudly over the castle on 
the crag. 

Now, the cause of contention that lay at the bot- 
tom of all this trouble was a vineyard, which from 
time immemorial both houses had claimed, and 
w^liose noble clusters of grapes had alternately fur- 
nished the wine with which the lords of Donster 
and Conster drank health to their friends and con- 
fusion to their foes when the great logs, brought 
from the black forest, blazed and crackled on their 
fireplaces in the cold winter evenings. 

Near this vineyard stood the little hermitage of 
Father Paul, who, while the two great houses 
fought and battled for the purple grapes, kept his 
own counsel and stood perfectly neutral, but man- 
aged to convey to his own cellar many a fine bushel 
of the rich fruit. When Donster held the vineyard, 
these pilferings were severely dealt with ; and 
when Conster ruled the vines, the priest, though 
not entirely forbidden, was put on short allowance. 
In the frequent intervals, when the houses were at 
one another's throats, Father Paul ran riot among 
the fruit with impunity. 

Of late, rumors had come whispering down the 
valley of the great conflict close at hand, and the 



Il6 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

priest was grieved in spirit, for he saw that this 
would be the final struggle for possession, and 
whoever would be the gainer, he would be the 
loser ; so, mounting his mule Peter, he set out for 
Conster, as the men of the crag had been in general 
rather harsher to him than brave-hearted Baron 
Karl, to find out whither events were tending. 

That evening the knights and men-at-arms sat in 
the great feasting hall of Baron Karl, and the froth 
of the ale, like the salt spray, whitened in flakes 
on their great beards while they sang loud songs 
and shouted mightily, and told wonderful stories 
about what they would do on the morrow ; but 
poor, pale little Father Paul sat and trembled in a 
corner of the room. And when the evening was far 
spent, and the huge pine torches burned yellow 
and dim in the midst of their smoke, Baron Karl 
rose, and standing proud and haughty among them 
all, while the damp night wind from the river 
rustled the silken banners on the wall, made 
announcement that he w^ho should do the most on 
the morrow to win the victory would have but to 
ask, and the dearest wish of his heart should be 
given him. And they all departed to seek for 
sleep in the huge chambers of the brave old pile, 
all but Father Paul, who, frightened by what he 
had heard, went and slept in the stall with his mule 
Peter. 

Peter was of an entirely different disposition 
from his master, for whereas Father Paul was of 
an exceedingly timid and peaceful character, 
Peter's soul burned for conflict and strife ; and in 



FATHER PAUL AND HIS MULE PETER. I I? 

the watches of the night the mule resolved that he 
would distinguish himself in the battle of the 
morrow. 

In the flush of the morning gallant steeds and 
brave riders came out from the baron's gate, with 
ringing of trumpets and flutter of pennons, and 
began to ride gaily down the sloping hill to the 
meadow, where the men of Donster were already 
waiting with the sunlight flashing on their spears. 
But Father Paul and his mule Peter stood on the 
edge of the hill and watched the battle from afar. 

As knight met knight and sword rang merrily on 
shield, the warlike spirit of Peter could no longer 
contain itself, and he commenced, slowly at first, 
and then faster and faster, to gallop down the hill 
toward the battle, while Father Paul tugged and 
pulled at the reins to no purpose, till, at last, 
frantic from terror, he dropped the bridle, and 
raising his voice to a shout, implored Peter, with 
all the strength of his lungs, to stop. 

Meanwhile the men of Donster pressed hard the 
army of the ba.ron, and the knights, wiio, on the 
evening before had drank so deeply, sang so loudly, 
and shouted so mightily, now began to give way 
and flee for their lives up the slopes of the hill 
behind them. Just at this moment appeared in 
their midst a black-robed priest, riding on a gallop- 
ing mule, who, waving his arms about him, com- 
manded them in ringing tones to stop. Ashamed 
and angry at being outdone by a priest, they 
returned to the charge with such fury that the men 
of Donster were put to utter rout and destruction. 



Il8 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

And when the evening was come again, at the 
banquet board sat Father Paul, an honored guest ; 
and once again Baron Karl rose proud and haughty 
among them to keep the promise made the night 
before. Kicli and kindly rang his voice, — " Speak, 
priest, the dearest wish of thy heart." 

The answer came straight from Father Paul's 
heart, — " May my lord be so good as to grant to 
his servant the famous vineyard for which his soul 
has yearned these many years." 

M. P. Thompson '92, 



THE OLD FINE. 



For centuries the old pine lias stood upon its 
rocky eminence and looked out across the valleys. 
Years have come and gone. Successive seasons 
have revolved as steadily as the hands of a clock. 
The warm breath of summer and the fierce blast of 
winter have swayed by turns its rugged branches. 
It has seen peace and war, poverty and plenty, sor- 
row and joy. In its young days the Pilgrims were 
landing at Plymouth Rock. Its green limbs 
quivered in response to the booming of cannon in 
'76. Its boughs drooped as the long lines of sol- 
diers marched away in '61. It has watched the 
growth of a nation and shared its hopes and 
fears. 

In the old days it did not stand alone as it does 
now, but was surrounded by its comrades. It 
looked out across a sea of tree-tops at blue Ascut- 
ney in the distance. The vast forest was wrapped 
in a mantle of silence only broken by the howl of 
the wolf or the war-whoop of the savage. An In- 
dian trail followed the banks of the river, and at 
long intervals a hunting party turned aside and 
camped beneath its branches. The wild birds 



I20 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

built their nests in its top and the squirrels chat- 
tered at its foot. And the years rolled on. 

At length the sound of the white man' s axe rang 
through the forest. Its companions fell about it 
and the pine was left alone. The log huts of the 
settlers dotted the neighboring hillsides and the 
echo of the pale-face's gun reverberated in the val- 
ley. One by one the Indians folded their tents and 
stole away to the land of the dying sun ; and they 
bade the pine goodbye. And when but two or 
three were left of the many who had followed the 
old trail along the river, they gathered about it and 
sang their farewell song. Then they, too, said 
goodbye and sadly turned their faces toward the 
West. And the years rolled on. 

The face of nature was changed. The pine be- 
came surrounded by cultivated fields. Villages 
sprang up, and church spires pointed the way to 
heaven. The college was founded, and the sturdy 
sons of the Granite state flocked thither to read of 
ancient days. Great buildings rose, and temples of 
learning gathered about the campus. Class after 
class came and went ; and each, like the departing 
red men, sang its farewell song under the branches 
of the old pine. And the years rolled on. 

The tempest came ; the winds bent its aged 
boughs and shattered its mighty trunk. Its lofty 
top, which had so long proudly overlooked the val- 
ley of the Connecticut, came crashing to the 
ground. But still it stands, though worn and 
broken by the storms of three centuries. It gazes 
mournfully down from its station on tlie hill 



THE OLD PINE. 121 

at the college wliicli it has guarded from its 
foundation. And as the succeeding classes sing 
their parting song about its giant trunk, its 
quivering needles whisper a sad farewell ; and 
the years roll on. 

G. a Selden '98. 
6 



SLUG TEN. 



Slug Ten's case stood in a far corner of the com- 
posing room, where the warm sunlight, pouring in 
through the uncurtained window, flooded her 
pretty head with new gold and played hide-and- 
seek coquettishly with the dimple in her cheek. 
Almost as swift as the sunbeams were the little 
white fingers that flashed here and there among 
the type, directed and guided by a pair of bright 
eyes that met and conquered the hardest " copy " 
with an ease the other girls vainly envied. '' Best 
hand in the office," said the foreman approvingly 
many times a day, and the tired proof-reader 
always breathed a sigh of relief when TEN ap- 
peared at the head of a take. 

We young reporters knew little about Slug Ten's 
capacity for work, but were well posted on her 
pretty face, trim figure, and winning ways. In 
fact, it soon came to be expected that every new 
man on the paper would signalize his arrival by 
falling in love with ^'our star compositor," her 
favorite title among us, and there were but few ex- 
ceptions to the rule. She treated us all alike, 
kindly and considerately, but without the slightest 
sign of sentiment. Bright' s passionate pleadings 





H. C. PEARSON '93. 



SLUG TEN. 123 

and Freeley's precise proposal were equal in their 
effect upon her— they had none. She seemed quite 
content to live for her little widowed mother alone, 
upon whom she lavished a wealth of love and ten- 
derness. 

But Hoyle came, drollest of good fellows, bright- 
est of newspaper men, full of love and life from the 
crown of his Irish head to the pointed tips of his 
patent leather gaiters. In a month he was the 
favorite reporter on the morning edition ; in two, 
the bosom friend of all the men and the object of 
undisguised adoration by all the women but one 
in the office ; and in three, even that one had come 
under the spell, and Slug Ten had given herself 
heart and soul to her first love. 

A handsomer couple is seldom seen ; a more 
devoted, never. Theirs was an ideal courtship. 
The course of true love ran as smooth as the pas- 
sage of summer clouds, and both were radiantly 
happy. 

It was the year of a presidential election, and 
when it was over Hoyle' s salary was to be raised, 
Father Barry was to say, '' Bless thee, my chil- 
dren,'* in Latin, and all the office force was to assist 
in christening a pretty little home at the West 
End. Every one was delighted at the prospect ex- 
cept old Fiske, who wrote heavy editorials in a 
villainously bad hand and took a fatherly interest 
in all the youngsters on the paper. He had known 
Hoyle years before in a distant city, and, while he 
never said anything on the subject, some of us got 
the idea from his manner that he knew more about 



124 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

that dashing young newspaper man than he cared 
to tell. 

One damp, dismal, dirty day in late October we 
found out what it was. The j)arty of the opposi- 
tion were to hold their great rally of the campaign 
that night, and " the Senator" — the dens ex machina 
of the paper — had telegraphed from Washington 
that Hoyle was to have the assignment. The 
Irishman's ready wit and power of broad but effec- 
tive satire and ridicule had made him invaluable 
for such work. The morning edition force came 
to work at three o'clock, but Hoyle was not among 
them. Supper time passed, and still he did not 
appear. Just as the city editor was sending a mes- 
senger boy to his rooms, the police reporter came 
in, wet and worried. 

" Hoyle' s howling drunk," he announced. " Of- 
ficer Rand just pulled him out of a free fight at 
French Tony's." 

The city editor was young and new to the place. 
"For Heaven's sake, what's to be done ? " he cried 
in despair. " Every man busy — no one else on the 
paper that can do that meeting in good shape any- 
way — and Hoyle drunk ! This will kill me yet. 
But what will Slug Ten say ? " 

A stifled sob interrupted him. A neat little 
mackintoshed figure stood in the door, shaking 
with sobs that could not be held back in spite of 
the bravest effort ; for Slug Ten had heard all and 
her heart was almost broken. 

We all tried to comfort her as best we could, but 
it was old Fiske who finally led her away, whis- 



SLUG TEN. 125 

pered a few words in her ear that dried her tears, 
and then brought her back for a private consulta- 
tion with the city editor. 

The Starts regular place at that evening's meeting 
was vacant, but back in the audience a brown-eyed 
little woman was busy taking notes of all the 
speeches and painting a vivid picture of the scene 
on her mind. At midnight a messenger-boy 
brought to the office a neat package of copy that 
proved to contain one of the best stories of a poli- 
tical meeting a newspaper ever published. 

When Hoyle appeared next day, shame-faced, 
wild-eyed, and sullen, the city editor called him 
into his private office and told him the story of his 
substitute. Then Slug Ten was summoned from 
the composing room and the two were left alone 
together. What passed at that meeting we have 
no right to inquire, but Slug Ten went back to her 
work with a song on her lips and a rose in her 
cheek that had not been there before. And Hoyle 
walked out of the little room with the free step of 
a man and a new resolve burning in his blue eyes. 
Tears dimmed it, however, as he called down the 
blessing of the saints upon old Fiske above their 
clasped hands. 

One of Mrs. Hoyle' s most precious possessions 
to-day, aside from a pair of chubby twin boys, is 
the following letter : 

U. S. Sejstate, Washington, D. C. 
Mr. Harry Hoyle : 

Dear Sir : — I wish to congratulate you person- 
ally upon your splendid report of the last campaign 



126 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

meeting. While it was written in your own pecu- 
liar vein, it was in every way admirably done, and 
a credit to The Star and to you. Hoping that your 
future successes may be identified with our paper, 
I am 

Yours with best wishes, 

J. C. Palmer, U. S. S. 

H. C. Pearson '93. 



STOLEN". 



Deagle Hendrickson had small blue eyes. He 
was short and but twenty. He wore a seal-skin 
coat, for the climate was cold. In a word, he was 
a young Esquimau, who had come to try his for- 
tune with the rest of the tribe by fishing through 
the ice. The first few days of their arrival had 
been devoted to the construction of temporary ice- 
houses, during which time he had surprised the 
others by locating his own claim a mile or more 
distant, and across a wide breach of open water. 

''What foolishness has got into your silly head 
now?" his father growled angrily, while his 
mother implored him not to separate himself so 
far from them. Threats and persuasions were 
alike in vain, for Deagle doggedly maintained his 
position. 

"I can fish much better here alone," he gave as 
his reason; " can run as many hooks as I like, and 
there won't be anybody to skip out with my signal 
flags. Even if we haven't any boat, or any pos- 
sibility of getting one, I can come to you often 
enough by the ice bridge; these two floes won't 
stir a peg till after the season breaks up, and then 
we shall be gone." So he had his way. They 



128 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

called him a queer fellow, and thought no more 
of it. Steadily he labored on, caught fish in 
abundance, and seemed well contented in his prac- 
tical isolation. 

The secret of the matter was that he had a pur- 
pose in these Quixotic actions. It w^as love which 
gave the incentive to this knight of the crystal 
realm. His lady was an Esquimau beauty. To 
look upon the sweet, rosy face of Christiana Ogles- 
torff was to love her, but of her many admirers 
Deagle was the only one who had succeeded in 
winning her affectionate heart. 

Although warmer passions are attributed to 
those of a Southern clime, the temperature of 
sentiment does not necessarily vary in direct pro- 
portion to that of the weather, and even in cold, 
barren Iceland, we find at least two hearts that 
throb sympathetically to the passions which have 
been the theme of poets for ages. As if, however, 
to prove that even in this slippery region the course 
of true love does not run smooth, the father of his 
beautiful love very strenuously objected. All in- 
tercourse had been cut off, and the little excite- 
ment was supposed to have died away. 

We are told that love is the business of the idle, 
but the idleness of the busy. Therefore Deagle 
spent no days of idleness while preparing a goodly 
quantity of fish, blubber, and other materials 
suited to frigid gastronomy, which he stored away 
for future use. 

''Now, then, for business," said he to old Billy, 
the leader of his dog team. "We '11 do it this very 



STOLEN. 129 

night." Billy pricked up his ears and wagged his 
tail in sympathetic pleasure. 

It was late when he wrapped himself carefully 
in his great fur coat and drew on his soft seal-skin 
boots, and stole cautiously forth into the midnight 
ail-; it was not dark, however, it was night only 
because these were the hours tacitly agreed upon 
for sleep, for this was the land of the midnight 
sun. He laid his axe down by the narrow ice 
bridge, and smiled complacently as he thought 
how he had taken care to drive entirely around the 
immense floe to make sure that this one bridge 
was the only means of connection between the two 
claims. 

"When I once get her over here and cut down 
the bridge," thought he, "' we are safe for at least 
two months, and by that time her father will be 
reconciled." 

He passed over the bridge, and sped eagerly on 
toward the small ice hut, which to him alone was 
distinguishable from the other village structures, 
because it was the home of his bride-elect. Kneel- 
ing down, he peeped in through the narrow aper- 
tuie which serves the multiple purpose of door- 
way, window-casing, ventilator, and fire-escape. 
"Yes! they are all asleep," he muttered, "and 
there she is. Ah! mine own, now so soon! " 

Immediately across from him lay the form of his 
would-be bride, dressed just as himself, except 
that in these cold climates the sleeper wears a 
large seal-skin hood drawn completely over the 
face in addition to the usual costume. On two 

6* 



130 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

other bunks lay other bundles of fur, the father 
and mother respectively. 

Could he safely pass the form of the dreaded 
father? Yes, he has reached her side. Yery rev- 
erently he lifts her in his arms, and a moment 
later he is passing swiftly over the glacial road 
toward the fatal ice bridge. AVhat exultation! 
What strength to endure any opposition! What 
exuberance of joy, mingled with an enrapturing 
sense of tenderness, as he held that precious bur- 
den to his heaving breast! 

A few hasty strokes of the axe. For a moment 
he watches the ice crack, crack, and cake after 
cake go floating oif toward the open sea, leaving 
an impassable barrier. The noise of the ice and 
the haste in entering his hut had awakened the 
fair sleeper. She started up in surprise. As she 
raised her hand with angry gesture to throw off 
the hood which concealed her face, the ardent 
lover threw himself passionately at her feet to 
implore her forgiveness. Looking up beseechingly 

into her face He had stolen his intended /a^/ier- 

in-law ! 

a W. McKay '93. 




p. E. STANLEY '93. 



I 



CARLYLE AND THE SARTOR RESARTUS. 



The first part of the century now drawing to a 
close was a period of literary brilliancy in England. 
Sixty years ago, in 1831, that brilliancy was wan- 
ing. Walter Scott's colossal mind was just break- 
ing down beneath the labors his conscience had 
imposed upon it ; seven years had passed since 
Byron ended his unhappy life in the Grecian rebel- 
lion ; the ashes of the dreamer Shelley had lain 
nine years under the shadow of the Palatinus ; the 
opium-cursed genius of Coleridge had almost dis- 
appeared in darkness. 

But Hood, Wordsworth, Mrs. Browning, Sou they, 
and Charles Lamb occupied the field of letters. 
To these names another must be added, — that of 
a literary master who seemed to care nothing for 
literature, a historian who scorned history, a phil- 
osopher who looked with unconcealed contempt 
upon the philosophy of his time, — Thomas Carlyle, 
the dyspeptic. Born to poverty and pain, his 
whole life seemed soured by misfortune. For his 
contemporaries in literature he felt nothing but 
disgust. " These literary men," he said, " are the 
devil's own vermin, whom the devil in his own 
good time will snare and successively eat." Wal- 



132 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

ter Scott he called "the novelist of his time, its 
favorite child and therefore an almost worthless 
one." Charles Lamb, one of the sweetest charac- 
ters of the age, and with whose misfortune Carlyle 
should have felt especial sympathy, he disposed of 
in this way : " Heigho ho, Charles Lamb I consi- 
der to be, in some considerable degree, insane : a 
more pitiful, rickety, gasping, staggering, stam- 
mering Tom Fool I do not know^ Armer Teufel I " 
Thus, out of sympathy with the age as he seemed, 
harsh and crabbed as he surely was, his soul dwxlt 
apart, not like a star, incapable of descending to 
earthly levels, but like a hermit, w^lio of his own 
accord turns his back upon friends and firesides to 
meditate in the chilly solitudes of a mountain cave. 
And like a hermit he sought seclusion from the 
distractions of society to ponder questions which 
complex methods of life conceal. One cannot 
study the stars beneath flaring gas-jets, or read the 
story of the rocks on city paving-stones ; neither 
can he penetrate the Sphinx-riddles of human exis- 
tence while involved in business or in the race for 
honor and fame. 

From his little farm at Craigenputtock he looked 
forth over the earth upon laboring, suffering hu- 
manity ; he looked in upon the sw^elling passions 
of the human heart ; he drank deep of German 
philosophy, — till at length there arose in his mind 
something which demanded utterance. He seemed 
to see that social organizations are but the gar- 
ments of social life, and are so outworn as to be 
almost useless ; that religion, government, art, and 



CARLYLE AND THE SARTOR RESARTUS. 133 

everything that goes to make up society, are the 
envelopes which hide it from view ; that nature it- 
self, and everything that appeals to sense, are but 
the garments of life, the time-vesture of God. 
Upon this theory, if theory it be, he proceeded to 
write the "Sartor Resirtus/' The book purports 
to be a translation of a German work by one Diog- 
enes Teufelsdrockh, entitled "Die Kleider, ihr 
Werden und ihr Werken " (Clothes : Their Origin 
and Office) ; but instead of being a mere essay on 
clothes, it evidently has a much wider scope, and 
its pretended origin is only a whimsical scheme of 
the English author. 

When the Sartor appeared in Frazer's Magazine 
in 1834, very few critics found in it anytliing to ad- 
mire, and the publishers were a^ sailed by harsh 
attacks upon the nonsense that was cumbering the 
pages of their journal. The ordinary reac^er of to- 
day finds much the same difficulty in understanding 
the book. It is written in the rude, stormy lan- 
guage of a man who seeks not how to speak, but 
what to say. His ideas sweep forth in a resistless 
flood, like smelted ore from a converter, scorning 
all moderation and glowing with the white heat of 
intense feeling. Chaotic similes are introduced, 
and applied with the merciless sarcasm of a supe- 
rior being from another world, looking down upon 
our sphere in diabolical contempt. See how he 
compares ambition to the kettle tied to the tail of 
a frightened dog : " . . . Thus did the agon- 
ized creature, loud, jingling, career tlirough the 
whole length of the Borough, and become notable 



134 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

enough, — fit emblem of many a conquering liero, 
to wliom Fate lias malignantly appended a tin ket- 
tle of ambition to chase him on ; which the faster 
he runs urges him the faster, the more loudly, and 
the more foolishly ! " Close to this comes a beau- 
tiful apostrophe, which shows that beneath Car- 
lyle's harshness is a sympathetic heart. "O ye 
loved ones that already sleep in the noiseless Bed 
of Kest, whom in life I could only weep for and never 
help ; and ye who, wide-scattered, still toil lonely 
in the monster-bearing desert, dyeing the flinty 
soil with your blood, — yet a little while, and we 
shall all meet tJiere^ and our Mother's bosom will 
screen us all ; and Oppression's harness, and Sor- 
row's fire-whip, and all the Gehenna Bailiffs that 
patrol and inhabit ever vexed Time, cannot thence- 
forth harm us any more." 

In the life of this Diogenes Teufelsdrockh, Car- 
lyle seems to typify the development of a mind 
from childhood, through a youth of disappoint- 
ment and despair, to a final rest in philosophical 
resignation. The obedient, trustful Gneschen, 
growing up in the German Peasant's home, is 
shown to become successively an observing, omniv- 
orous youth ; at the university, a deep student 
led by science to realism, where he sees the world 
a pitiless machine, threatening with its iron jaws 
to devour him, and offering him no chance to use 
his capabilities and escape. ISText we are shown a 
rejected lover maddened by grief and shame, flying 
over the earth with hunger always parallel, and a 
whole infernal chase in the rear that makes hunger 



CARLYLE AND THE SARTOR RESARTUS. 1 35 

seem a pleasant companion ; till at length deter- 
mining no more to fly from anything, he comes 
struggling up from the depths of sorrow and 
despair to the calm plane of philosophy. His tran- 
sition from despair to resignation is described as 
follows : "Perhaps the miserablest man in the 
whole French capital was I . . . . when all at 
once there arose a Thought in me, and I asked my- 
self, ' What art thou afraid of ? wherefore, like a 
coward, dost thou forever pip and whimper, and 
go cowering and trembling ? Despicable biped ! 
what is the sum-total of all the worst that can 
befall thee ? Death ? Well, Death ; and say the 
pangs of Topliet, too, and all that the Devil and 
Man can do against thee ! Hast thou not a heart ; 
canst thou not suffer it whatso it be ; and as a child 
of Freedom, though outcast, trample Tophet itself 
under thy feet, while it consumes thee ? " Hence- 
forth he is sorrow-proof ; nothing can touch him, 
and he views the world with indifference and de- 
fiance. He sees in society only a festering mass of 
corruption, jerking with the spasmodic motions of 
galvanism instead of the strong life that used to 
dwell there and look forth with good will from its 
now glassy eyes. 

In the chapter entitled " Circumspective," the 
author reviews the progress and results of the 
book as follows : " How many British readers have 
actually arrived with us at the new promised coun- 
try ? Is the Philosophy of Clothes at last opening 
around them ? Long and adventurous has the 
journey been : from those outmost vulgar, palpa- 



136 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

ble, Woollen Hulls of man ; through his wondrous 
Flesh-Garments and his wondrous Social Garni- 
tures ; inwards to the Garments of his very Soul's 
Soul. Can many readers discern, as through a 
glass darkly, in huge, wavering outlines, in some 
primeval rudiments of Man's Being, what is 
changeable divided from what is unchangeable *? 
In a word, do we at length stand safe in the far 
region of Poetic Creation and Palingensia, where 
that Phenix Death-Birth of Human Society, and of 
all human things, appears possible, is seen to be 
inevitable ? " To all of which the ordinary reader 
can answer, in the words used by the author, "E'.s 
leuchtet wir ein " (I catch a glimpse of it). But to 
the world at large it is to be feared that " Palingen- 
sia " and the " Phenix Death-Birth " must remain, 
in a large measure, unknown quantities. But 
nevertheless, amidst his mysticism and polysylla- 
bic obscurity, shines clear and sharp the message 
which he delivers to the age, and reiterates 
throughout these strange pages : That " Truth is 
the source of every good, to Gods and men ; " that 
"The latest gospel in the world is, 'Man, know 
thy work and do it ;' " that " The beast utilitaria" 
is the most dangerous pest of the earth ; and that 
'' The true misery is weakness," therefore, all 
honor to real strength, — these are the salient 
points of the work, and keys to the labyrinthal 
philosophy which hides its treasures from heedless 
readers. 

You have stood looking across the lake toward 
Profile rock, and seen that granite face looking 



CARLYLE AND THE SARTOR RESARTUS. 137 

steadily away over the hills at something we cannot 
see, but which we feel is there, — eternal and inde- 
pendent of human strength or weakness. Summer 
sunshine rests in beauty on that solemn brow, but 
the stern features never relax ; winter storms 
sweep down the valley and hide the earth from its 
view, but that calm repose is never broken ; and 
since first these mountains reared their massive 
domes toward the greater dome of blue has that 
penetrating gaze been fixed, beyond power of 
earthly things to change it. 

With similar feelings one considers this book, 
which from its high position of superiority to hu- 
man care and weakness seems to look through the 
objects of sense, to the fixed and eternal principles 
beyond them. Hard as granite toward shams and 
deceit, it can light up with gleams of sympathy 
toward struggling truth, as the Old Man of the 
Mountain smiles when sunbeams touch his rugged 
face. 

P. E. Stanley '93. 



ON PREXIE'S GARDElSr. 



In the course of your tramps about Hanover, 
have you ever been led to climb the rocks of 
"Prexie's Garden," that barren eminence that 
looks dovrn upon us just to the south-east of the 
village ? If not, by all means make the trip. The 
ascent will require only a few minutes of time, 
but it will raise a doubt in your mind as to whether 
the peculiar name of this particular point was 
bestowed in irony of its baldness or in appreciation 
of its breadth of view. 

The familiar scenes which lie outstretched 
beneath this little hill make up one of the fairest 
sections of the Connecticut valley, through which 
the silver river runs, bright and clear as our col- 
lege days, and flows on, as they do, into the midst 
of the world's industry beyond. Up from its banks 
rise the plains of Norwich and Hanover, enclosed 
by the green hills of sister states. 

Just below us is the valley of Mink brook, begin- 
ning in the dim distance, winding on toward Fresh- 
man chapel, thence to the Connecticut. Colored 
by the varied tints of autumn, the slopes about it 
present the fairest of nature's picturing. Years 
long past are brought back again by the remains of 
an old mill close by the rushing rivulet, and the 
time-colored cottage at the parting of the roads. 



ON PREXIE'S GARDEN. 139 

Generations of students, in the hour of twilight, 
have contemplated the beauties of these rural 
scenes, only to forget them in the larger attractions 
of their Mecca — Lebanon — beyond the hills. 

N'orthward lies the Yale of Tempe, leading, like- 
wise, to the river, its willows weeping in the 
remembrance of past sorrow. Eich farm-lands 
stretch away into the distance beyond, dotted by 
buildings that tell of thrift and plenty. 

Well hidden in the foliage, the village of Hanover 
lies silent at our feet. Iso other point affords a bet- 
ter view of our college town. Its classic halls, ancient 
and modern, stand forth in prominence, and the new 
athletic field, the training-ground of the champion- 
ship teams of the future, expands beneath the eye. 
By the side of the unfinished tower overlooking the 
college buildings, as in guardian capacity, stands 
the Old Pine, dear to the sons of Dartmouth. 

Like the dwindled features of our staid and 
dreamy hamlet, the trials and troubles of student 
life seem also dwarfed, and we realize, with the 
broadened view, the breadth of opportunity and 
the grandness of life. In after years, when the 
blessed reality of college life has yielded to the 
routine of the world's work, we shall view over 
and over again, from the prospect point of mem- 
ory, these scenes outstretched below. The old 
buildings, the quiet streets, the hills and vales of 
Hanover will lie before us, mellowed by a softer 
influence than the haze of autumn or the fading 
sunlight from the Norwich hills. 

H. B. Metcalf'93. 



AN U:^^SETTLED QUESTION. 



The thought came to him this morning with a 
curious incongruity. Last night it all seemed nat- 
ural enough amid tlie whirl and glitter of the ball- 
room, the sparkle of costly dresses, the subdued 
strains of the orchestra, and the rhythm of light 
footsteps on the polished floor. He had been fas- 
cinated by her presence, enchanted by the brilliant 
lights and perfume-laden air. The past and future 
seemed alike a dream. He thought but of the 
present and her — the beauty of her eyes and the 
witchery of her glance. He had cast judgment 
and reflection to the winds, and asked her to marry 
him. And she — she had blushed, hesitated, con- 
sented. It all seemed very nice then, but now 
everything was dift'erent. The sun glared gaudily 
through the open window, the little French clock 
on the mantle ticked prosily on, his dress suit lay in 
a disordered heap upon the chair ; everything was 
dull, tiresome, commonplace. Poetry and romance 
had faded, and left but the stern, cold reality. 

Richard sat up angrily in bed. "Why was I 
born an ass?" he queried, spitefully. "I don't 
want that girl! " But what was he to do about it, 
he reflected. He had voluntarily and deliberately 




G. C. SELDEN '93. 



AN UNSETTLED QUESTION. HI 

got himself into the difficulty: how should he 
escape? He must go over and see her, and tell her 
that he was utterly irresponsible for what he said 
last night. " Pretty hard," said Richard, "but it 's 
the only way out of it." 

A few" hours later he stood at the wide front 
door, bracing his nerves for the encounter. He 
would end it then and there. As he entered the 
reception-room he saw her sitting in an easy chair 
at the farther end. Now! He began trying to 
think how he should begin. He must manage 
somehow to do it gracefully. After all, how beau- 
tiful she was! She was rising now and coming 
forward. How gracefully she walked! Wasn't it 
possible he had been too hasty in deciding he could 
not marry? She was half way across the room. 
Wouldn't it be better to put off his decision till 
another day? She was close to him, blushing just 
a little. Confound his decision ! He took her in 
his arms, and kissed her. 

Richard left the house feeling that this being 
engaged was a very pleasant thing, and it was not 
till he had walked half way home that he again 
reached the conclusion that he did not want to 
marry her, and must get out of it as soon as possi- 
ble. But his delay had vastly increased the diffi- 
culty. He could not break off now without some 
plausible excuse. The plea of fascination might 
do for the ball-room at one in the morning, but it 
certainly w^ould not answer for the parlor at two 
p. m. Manifestly he must continue the engage- 
ment, and wait for something to turn up. 



142 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

But the weeks flew by, and nothing turned up. 
Again and again Richard resolved that this thing 
must stop, and firmly determined that his next 
visit should put an end to it; but at the next visit 
he would find it very inconvenient to say anything 
about it, decide to put it off till next time, and go 
away and call himself a donkey. It was all in 
vain. Instead of breaking off, he was being bound 
more and more firmly every day. 

When it came to setting the date for the wed- 
ding, Richard struggled manfully. He had found 
from experience that it was impossible to count 
upon saying anything about it in her presence. He 
determined to write her a note, and go West for 
the summer. After several trials, he succeeded in 
writing the note, and put it in his pocket to post 
on his way to the station. He concluded, however, 
on second thought, not to post it till he reached 
Albany. At Albany he dropped it into the Hud- 
son, and returned to New York. 

At length came the appointed day. Very slowly 
and thoughtfully Richard dressed for the wedding. 
After all, would it not be better to stop, even now? 
It was not yet too late. He buried his face in his 
hands, and heartily wished he had never seen her. 
Whatever was to be done must be done quickly. 
Was it not unfair to her to let her marry him? 
Was it not still more unfair to him? Why had he 
dallied with fate in such reckless disregard of con- 
sequences? He must make the decision. He drew 
a dollar from his pocket. "Heads, I marry her; 
tails, I don't," he said, solemnly. The coin fell 



AN UNSETTLED QUESTION. 143 

ringing upon the floor — Tails! Richard stared at 
it half angrily. "Twice out of three times," said 
he; "that's fair." Heads! Once more would 
decide it. Richard turned the dollar over and 
thought how much depended on one revolution 
more or less. It went whirling over and over 
through the air. Tails! "That settles it," he 
said, firmly. He rose, put on his coat, and went 
quietly down stairs. There she was! He could 
imagine even now the look of astonishment on her 
face when he told her his determination. He stood 
and watched her from a distance. Wasn't she 
pretty! Ah! she saw him now, and was coming 
toward him smiling. "Richard, you fool!" he 
ejaculated; ''marry her? — of course I shall! " He 
walked slowly across the room to meet her. 

G. C. Selden'93. 



THIRTY MINUTES OUTSIDE. 



It is getting late, and the lights are out in the 
studies and parlors of Faculty avenue. The Main 
street shops have closed their doors, except where 
a dim light struggles from the window of Carter's: 
that Hanover Delmonico's, the home of fried oysters 
and birch beer, has delayed the closing of its gates 
to encourage hospitality in the victim of the latest 
joke, who is, in consequence, setting up the stews 
to his cronies. One gas jet burns in the Wheelock 
office, and a group around the fireplace is sleepily 
discussing the next season's base ball outlook in the 
intervals of gazing through a hazy bank of tobacco 
smoke at the perennial rebus that hangs below the 
mantel. The most enthusiastic loafer of the Han- 
over brotherhood, whose bond of union is the daily 
meeting where they lean against the wall, exchange 
pessimistic views upon society in general and stu- 
dents in particular, and indulge in harmonious 
expectoration, has at last sought his virtuous 
couch, and the street is still. 

As we round the corner and pass down Wheelock 
street, a stiff breeze hums in the wires of the new 
electric light system, and suggests brilliant rooms 
and lighted squares in the near future ; but the small 



THIRTY MINUTES OUTSIDE. 1 45 

wooden structure under the shadow of the Gym. is 
lighted as it always is, and the latest representative 
of that swift and unending succession of Charlies 
stands at his table, sprinkling and folding as cheer- 
fully as though he had worked only "eight hours 
this day" instead of eighteen and was about to 
enjoy a prolonged vacation. And over in Reed 
hall is another industrial centre — no, for the merry 
tinkle of a banjo is coming from those lighted 
windows, and somebody is striking up a paean to 
"The Man in the Moon," frequently interrupted 
by the eminently decisive tones that are wont to 
accompany a difference of opinion in a nocturnal 
game of pede. 

In the dim moonlight Culver hall looms up like 
a nine-story block, at least four times as large as 
the place into which we are accustomed to climb 
three times a week for a lecture in geology, sur- 
rounded by the shelved mineral glories of New 
Hampshire. Beyond Conant stretches a shadowy 
tract, rough with unfinished ditches and chaotic 
grading, a very Dantean region of uncertain hor- 
rors, but which in imagination we can see thronged 
with excited students around a diamond, rhythmi- 
cally shouting a potent war-cry of wah-hoo-wah, 
or breathlessly watching the eager, shifting lines 
in a foot-ball game. 

As we cross the old campus we cannot help re- 
flecting that the last game has probably been 
played there. Like the focal battle-grounds of 
Europe this historic sod has every inch been lost 

and won dozens of times in contests only less 

7 



146 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

stirring than international war, since those gigan- 
tic pines that once shaded the soil bowed before 
the puissant axes of Eleazer Wheelock's muscular 
disciples. 

Now the old college clock is striking twelve, and 
the last weary plugger on the alley with the eupho- 
nious name thinks of the unwelcome summons 
sure to come from the wooden tower above him 
seven hours later, and, blowing out his light, joins 
the great majority of the horizontal. 

P. K Stanleij '93. 



THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL. 



They stood on the wide hotel piazza, gazing off 
at grand old Lafayette. The dying sunlight, bath- 
ing the mountain's massive shoulders in a flood of 
crimson, added the touch of color which perfected 
the beauty of the scene. 

" ^o, Jack,'' she said, " I cannot many you. 
You are strong and kind, and quite as ^ ood-look- 
ing as is good for you. I come as near loving you 
as I ever shall any man, perhaps, but I cannot 
marry you." 

Jack Hazard pulled savagely at his blonde mus- 
tache. "But hang it, Ethel," his high-bred drawl 
a trifle accelerated by his excitement, "you've put 
me oft' for a year, and now^ you give me my conge 
without a shadow of reason. It's unjust." 

Under the ashes-of-roses gown the girl's breast 
heaved a little, and a hard look came into the 
brown eyes. "I'll tell you my reason, then: I shall 
marry for money. How much have you ? Xot a 
cent. A mere newspaper scribbler — that's all. 
You have some talent, they say: I do n't know. 
Talent doesn't count nowadays, unless it's the 
kind that wears well in Wall street." 



"But, Ethel" 



14^ DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

She silenced him with a gesture. " Every 
breath I've drawn from babyhood has been per- 
fumed with roses and violets. Do you think I 
could live in an atmosphere of corned-beef and 
cabbage ? How much do I know about the man- 
agement of a home ? How could I live on twelve 
hundred a year ? No, Jack, if I were to marr/ for 
love," the cherry lips drooped wistfully, "I might 
not speak just as I do. But as it is, we can only 
say — Good bye." 

He looked down into the valley where the night 
was fast darkening. His brows were knit hard ; 
there was an expression on his face that made her 
tremble. Of a sudden he turned. 

"And so you will sell yourself, body and soul, to 
the highest bidder. A slave of fashion, a devotee 
of Mammon. My God ! And I thought you an 
angel. I cast about you the halo of holy woman- 
hood : I called you my goddess. Sold to the high- 
est bidder ! My hopes, my future, my love, cast 
in as a makeweight. In the name of Heaven, 
Ethel, don't do this !" 

Over her face there passed a shade of trouble, of 
pain, that left behind it a death-like pallor. There 
was a tired droop to the pretty shoulders, an ex- 
pression of infinite weariness in the brown eyes. 
But she only shook her head, and held out her 
hand to bid him adieu. 

Yet, as he walked slowly and sorrowfully away, 
her eyes followed him. Once she cried softly, 
"Jack ! " but he did not hear. And so she saw 
him for the last time. 



THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL. 149 

A month later the season was at its height. 
The gay tide of fashion had completely submerged 
Bethlehem and Franconia, and the special corre- 
spondent of the Boston Mercury at those places 
filled a column a day, and three columns Sundays, 
with a curious mixture of fact and fancy. 

*' Strikes me Rockwell and that Seymour girl are 
getting pretty thick," he mused one day. " Guess 
I'll touch 'em up a trifle." 

And so the next day the Mercury's thousands of 
readers were told that, — "One of the most pop" 
ular belles at the Forest Hills this summer is Miss 
Ethel Seymour, the beautiful Boston brunette. It 
is said on good authority that from the score of 
hearts at her feet she has chosen that of Hon. 
Charles A. Rockwell, the millionaire railroad 
king." 

Rockwell read the item while leisurely sipping 
his favorite julep through a straw, xls the full 
meaning of the words gradually came over him, he 
laughed — the deep " Haw ! haw I " of the success- 
ful self-made man — and sought his friend, the clerk. 

"Say, what poor it wrote that? Give-away, 
ain't it ? Might as well come out that way as any 
though, I s'pose. Have something on me ?" And 
the urbane clerk, promptly assenting, wished in 
the depths of his heart that a millionaire's engage- 
ment would be announced every day. 



Ethel Seymour reclined at ease on a cool bam- 
boo couch, where the wind through the open win- 



150 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

dow could ruffle her fluffy hair and stir tlie lace at 
her breast. Carelessly she glanced through the 
papers, until her own name caught and held her 
attention. As she read, her fine lips curled scorn- 
fully, and at the end she burst into low, bitter 
laughter. 

"So I have succeeded," she said, half aloud, 
"and the world knows it." After a pause, "And 
Jack will know. * Her mood had changed now. 
All the pride and scorn was gone. She threw her- 
self face downward upon the soft, silken cushions, 
and wept, bitter tears of repentance. 



In his stuft'y little office on the top floor of the 
great Star building Jack Hazard read the paper, 
too. Ever since noon he had worked feverishly, 
ceaselessly : exhausted, body and brain, he was ill 
prepared to meet the shock. He read the few 
lines once, twice, thrice, and, like the others, he 
laughed ; but it was the jangling, discordant, 
demoniacal laughter that one never hears save in a 
mad-house, and that haunts one's dreams for long 
nights afterward. He tore the paper into bits, 
burned them on his window-sill, and laughed again 
as the charred scraps flew up towards heaven. 

"It is false," he muttered. "She is mine — all 
mine." 

He snatched open a drawer in his desk, and took 
out her picture. How well he knew every feature ! 
Those laughing brown eyes ! how often had he seen 
his lover's glance reflected in their depths! Those 



THE BOOT OF ALL EVIL. 1 5 I 

saucy curls ! every time they had brushed against 
his cheek, the chords of his heart had thrilled 
responsively. Those dainty lips 

'*Ah, God ! but she is lost. Sold, sold — going, 
going, gone ! Purchased by Mr. Kockwell for a 
million dollars. Ha ! ha ! A good bargain ! " 

He buried his face in his hands, and cursed and 
moaned and prayed by turns. He thrust the pict- 
ure back into its drawer. What was that beneath 
that met his touch ? Did he take it out, or did it 
fly of itself to the desk before him ? There it lay, 
its bright steel shining clear. How cool it felt to 
his fevered hand ! His temples were burning with 
the heat ; how the icy touch of the muzzle relieved 
them ! 

A belated dray thundered through the street be- 
low — a locomotive in the yard let off steam — and 
the noise drowned the sharp report of the revolver. 
Only the great moon, shining in through the win- 
dow, knew of the deed. 

Ten minutes later the office-boy clattered up the 
corridor, telling, not unmusically, how he would 
" Whistle and wait for Katie." With the instinct 
of hon camaraderie^ he opened the door with but 
the merest apology for a knock. 

"Jack! Mr. Moore says" — then he stopped. 
Where was Jack ? What was that dark heap, half 
on the desk, half on the floor ? A curious terror 
chilled his heart, yet drove him nearer, nearer, till 
he saw the ugly, black hole in the white temple. 
The blood oozed from it, drop by drop, and stood 
in a little pool on the floor. 



152 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

The boy did not run away. He stood rooted to 

the spot with a sort of fearful wonderment. " Poor 

Jack I " he said with mannish gravity. Then, as 

his eye spied the picture in the half-shut drawer, 

''An' a woman did it." 

H. C. Pearson '93. 



A WINTER MORNING. 



Let it be some morning after a night in which 
several inches more of snow have fallen. Imagine — 
it is an improbable, yet not an impossible, case — 
a solitary student out a little before six o'clock on 
that morning, just as the last white crystals have 
fallen through the still air, viewing the sleeping 
town. The damp snow has clung to, and ladened, 
every twig and branch. Every building is mantled, 
every post capped in white. As our student gazes 
up the street in the dim light, everything seems 
transfigured. It is almost like a street hewn out 
of marble, so cold and rigid, and still the wiiite 
houses and white-limbed trees appear. It is all 
very beautiful and suggestive, and so still that the 
student almost doubts its reality. He begins to 
wonder if he is indeed among the living. No indi- 
cation of life is apparent, no footprints but his own 
are to be seen. But he is not kept long in sus- 
pense, for life soon appears, and in a practical 
aspect. 

Suddenly the striking of a bell falls upon his ear, 
followed by a dozen lusty tones, in rhythmic order, 
from the same source. Signs of life soon begin to 

be manifested. A gray cloud issues from the 

7* 



154 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

kitchen chimney. The snow is whisked from the 
porch before the door. An aged milkman plods 
along the street with a few small cans in either 
hand. The snow is being cleared away from the 
chapel steps, while a snow-plow haunts the less 
frequented streets, not to appear upon the center 
of the town until many feet have trodden its walks. 

The bell strikes seven hours, and rings again. 
Most students begin to rise. The retailers of beef 
and milk begin their rounds, and the cheery 
whistle of the grocer's man is heard. When the 
half hour nears, students begin to emerge from 
halls and private dwellings, singly, or in little 
groups, and equipped with rubber boots and coats 
that muffle as well as wrap ; they go for the morn- 
ing mail, and then to the eating clubs. 

The last straggler to breakfast has not dis- 
appeared before the bell begins to toll, and a long 
line of students reaches across the campus, headed 
for the chapel. Another line is coming up College 
street. There is a murmur of voices and a tramp- 
ing of feet to be heard, while each late riser now is 
greeted with shouts as he hurries past. 

The lines of students become more continuous, 

then broken, and finally straggling. The bell 

begins to strike. The stragglers begin to run. It 

is a close race, but every man is within the chapel 

by the sixteenth stroke. The bell ceases, the 

chapel doors shut, and college exercises have 

begun for the day. 

A. C, Sails '93. 



A MOUNTAIN SLIDE. 



The White Mountain coaching parade at Bethle- 
hem has become an annual event of national repu- 
tation, and needs no introduction. During the 
summer of the present year I was on the staff of 
Among the Clouds^ the summer newspaper issued 
from the summit of Mount Washington, and had 
occasion to report the parade for that paper. The 
event itself possesses little interest for the average 
reader except in so far as it leads up to the experi- 
ence I have to relate. 

Tuesday afternoon, when the parade was over, I 
started for Mount Washington, where I was to 
write my report. Time was valuable, so I stood 
balanced on one foot, and wrote in the cars, as far 
as Base station. Going up the mountain the situ- 
ation was more difficult, but I succeeded in produc- 
ing half a dozen pages, which required more time 
for translation than it had required to write them^ 
Promptly on my arrival, however, I commenced 
deciphering my hieroglyphics, and by midnight the 
last line was in type and the forms were on the 
press. Without the least consideration for my 
feelings, it had been arranged by my employer that 
for the next day I should descend from the pride 



156 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

and dignity of a moulder of public opinion to the 
Ijlane of a common news-dealer. So I had to 
accompany the product of my genius to its desti- 
nation, and superintend its disposal at so much per 
copy. 

There are no night expresses with sleeping cars 
attached on the Mount Washington Railway. 
There is, however, a custom of making the descent 
on what are called slide-boards. This practice is 
confined to railroad men, and is very dangerous for 
any one unaccustomed to it. At about three o' clock 
Wednesday morning one of the section men called 
for me, as it was time to make the start. My 
friends, the printers, all begged locks of my hair 
and the address of my parents, the latter for con- 
venience in sending the body home, as they cheer- 
fully explained. 

I had often heard stories of frightful deaths from 
injudicious use of the slide-board, and as these 
were all repeated, one after another, by the jolly 
printers, I started oif in a happy frame of mind. 
I borrowed a pair of ink-stained overalls, several 
sizes too large, and took my seat on the board. 
The section-man had a bright lantern which he 
suggested leaving behind, while I made haste to 
request, and, as I thought, without a suspicion of 
fear in my manner, that we take it along. But 
the man said, "Oh, don't you be scairt, young 
man! There ain't no danger." I took the lan- 
tern, however. The man grasped the brake handles, 
loosened the grip on the rail, and we slid. To any 
wiio are not familiar with this mode of travel I will 



A MOUNTAIN SLIDE. I 57 

say that ignorance is bliss. The contrivance for 
sliding comprises a board about five feet long, 
with an iron piece on the under side grooved to 
fit tlie edges of the cog-rail There is a long handle 
at each side, fastened at one end to a pivot ; on 
the top of each handle near the pivot is a piece of 
iron v^hich, when the handle is lifted, grips the 
outer flanges of the rail and holds the board in a 
vice-like clutch. It is a perfect machine in theory, 
but there are some points about it which might be 
improved in practice. For instance, during the 
whole length of the descent the seat seemed 
covered w^itli ten thousand points. This sensation 
is caused by the constant vibrations. There is an 
apparent rise of temperature underneath the seat 
which reminds one of the gentle heat which ema- 
nates from a red-hot cooking stove at mid-day. 

Of course I was not frightened, but merely 
experienced a queer sensation as we shot around 
the curves, down over Jacob's Ladder, into the 
world below. "Now don't you be af eared 'tah 
whatsoever," soothingly remarked the engineer 
I kept up a continual flow of talk, in vain efforts to 
convince the man that I was a "tough," and not 
in the least alarmed at the situation. " Oh, this is 
grand," I exclaimed, — "tlie best ride I ever had in 
my life I " But my teeth chattered when I said it. 
The ride would have been very much like a coast 
in the winter had there not been the deafening 
whir of the board on the rail, and that pleasant 
sensation of warmth already described. 

At last the buildings at the base came into sight. 



158 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

There was a quick pull on the brake handles, and 
we stopped. The trip which seemed not over five 
minutes long had actually required twenty-five 
minutes. 

After I had flattered myself that my fear had 
been completely concealed from my companion, 
what was my disgust on seeing in the next day's 
paper a vivid description of my terror, and describ- 
ing how "our reporter clung desperately to the 
seat, and felt for his hair to see if he had any left." 
This was all true, but I did not care to have every- 
body know it, as it precluded the possibility of all 
the thrilling stories I had planned to tell about the 
coolness and courage I had displayed. 

A. O. Caswell '93, 



PETE LARKIM. 



To the occupants of the two little huts which 
clung from force of habit rather than from any ap- 
parent cause to the western slope of Sheep moun- 
tain, the coming day gave promise of but the same 
dreamy round of monotony. The early morning 
sun was creeping down the opposite side of the 
narrow valley, toward the sandy shore of the little 
stream which the mountaineers all " 'lowed flowed 
somewhar." The shanties which sat side by side, 
perhaps fifty feet up, the hillside from the little 
brook, were of a nondescript character. In their 
better days they had evidently been substantial log 
houses, but during the lapse of three generations 
which had found shelter there, the spruce logs had 
crumbled, and there had gradually taken their 
place irregular rows of slabs which the thoughtful 
stream had brought from the saw-mills farther up 
the valley. They now had the appearance of lean- 
ing stockades, whose tottering roofs were sup- 
ported by unseen hands. 

Bill Larkim, who had been "raised," and who 
still lived, in the shanty on the south, was seated, 
on this particular morning, on a low stool by the 
side of his door, enjoying a rest from his labors 



l6o DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

and his morning pipe. He glanced up as a tall and 
lank boy of about seventeen emerged from the slab 
lean-to in the rear of the hut, followed by a scraw- 
ny cow which he turned loose at the very door. 

"Xaow, ha' n't I tole ye not to turn that critter 
loose right hyar in the tater-patch, Pete Larkim ? " 

Pete, who bore marked resemblance to the " ole 
man," kicked the "critter" along without answer- 
ing him a word, for he had learned that obedience 
was not only the better part, but, for him, the 
whole of valor. After driving the cow across the 
brook, Pete came shambling back, humming to 
himself an old mountain song about 

"■ The blueb 'ries and the posies, 
An' the woodchucks with red noses." 

As old Bill heard the word blueb' ries, it seemed to 
recall something to his dreamy mind. He mo- 
tioned Pete toward him, and said in an extended 
drawl, — 

" Wa-a-1, Pete, whar ye goin' ter-day ? " 
Pete, as if anticipating pleasure, answered, — 
''Up the mounting, uv corse. Thar a' n't no 
use hangin' round hyar, an' I mought get attrack 
uv thet bar thet's ben a munchin' berries thar all 
summer.'' 

" Wa-a-1," said the old man, " you jest set down 
on thet thar bar'l ; I want ter talk with ye. Me 'n 
'Ria hev thunk it all over, an' we've decided thet 
we're a-gittin' ole, an' it's a-time ye was gittin' 
merried, so's ter make it kinder aisy fur yer ole 
dad." 



PETE LARKIM. l6l 

Just then '"Ria," who had been digging some 
potatoes for their noon-day meal, came down from 
the garden-patch above the shanty, and stood there 
holding them in her apron. 

"Maw," said Pete, with upturned face, "I 
do n't want er git merred, do I ? ' Sides who'd hev 
me?" 

*' Uv corse ye wanter git merred, Pete Larkim, 
and thet right quick. Me 'n Bill a'n't gwine ter 
live alius." 

" But, who 'd hev me ? " pleaded Pete. * 

" Hev ye ! " screamed Pete's maw. " Hev ye ! 
why yeres Lize Simons ben livin' right next door 
nigh on ter sixteen year. Corse she HI hev ye." 

Pete, who was one of the good-natured, yielding 
sort, "'lowed he hed known Lize a long spell," 
and the ole man and " 'Ria," who had it planned 
to their own satisfaction, finally persuaded poor 
Pete that he ought to g^t married to-day. Pete 
rebelled a little against this precipitate action, say- 
ing that he had n't got a cent to give the parson. 

"Thet a'n't no dife'runce," said Bill, "we've 
got a 'count at the store for the last blueb'ries we 
let him hev. It's ben a mighty fine season, an' it 
mought be nigh two dollars. Naow, Lize an' you 
kin hev the hull o' thet if ye '11 go down ter 'Bar 
Camp' ter-day an git merred. The parson only 
gits a dollar fur merryin' the best uv folks, an' 
ye ' hev a dollar fur a weddin' tower down ter the 
' Bluff,' with a ride on the lake an' plenty uv 
peanuts. Ye kin come up ter-night on Joe Green's 
loggin team, an' hev it all over in one day." 



1 62 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

Pete's small grey eyes lighted up at the thought 
of the peanuts, and the ride on the little lake 
which he had seen so many times in its sunset 
glory from the summit of Sheep mountain. It had 
seemed to him like one vast sea, beyond which all 
the world must lie. 

" Wa-a-1," said Pete at length, "jest as maw an' 
yo' sez. If Lize is willin', I is." 

Without waiting for more urging, Pete drew 
himself up from the barrel on wiiich he was seated, 
and started slowly toward Jim Simons' s door. On 
the threshold he stopped suddenly, as if his cour- 
age had failed him, but pulling his tattered hat 
over his eyes, he entered. 

" Whar's Lize ?" said he to a little fellow who 
was yet toddling about on the floor. 

"Ahint the house, uv corse," lisped the child. 
" She 's fixin' up ; she 's goin' ter be merred." 

Pete's grey eyes grew a trifle greyer, his hat w^as 
pulled a little lower by a sudden jerk of his hand, 
but that was all. He turned to go out again, mut- 
tering to himself, — 

"I knowed she wouldn't hev ??ie." 

Poor Pete was utterly unconscious that his paw 
and maw had arranged the whole matter for him, 
and that Lize had said ^'Yes." Before Pete 
reached the half-open door, a small, dark-skinned 
face appeared at the shed window. The heavy eye- 
brows did not serve to hide altogether the small 
black eyes which looked out from beneath them 
with a knowing glance, as a voice as sharp and 
peculiar as the face called, — 



PETE LARKIM. I 63 

"Hello, Pete ! Did ye know we're argoin' ter 
be merred ? Maw says we kin go on a weddin' 
tower, if we see the parson ter-day. Be mighty 
spry, Pete ; I 's mos' fixed/' 

Ten minutes later Lize emerged from the Simons 
shanty dressed in her best. It was not in satins, 
to be sure, but for her it was to be her " weddin' 
gown," and that was enough. The broad-rimmed 
straw hat which she had borrowed of her father for 
the occasion was tied down at the sides with a 
piece of red yarn into a sunbonnet. Her face, 
scrupulously clean, contrasted strangely with her 
" weddin' gown," which had seen its best days sev- 
eral years before. Pete, who had at last come to 
comprehend the situation, had not taken the pains 
even to don a "biled " shirt. As he met the one 
who was to share his peanuts, he greeted her with a 
"Hello, Lize I Ben fixin' up, ha' n't ye?" And 
without further questioning they started down the 
mountain — Pete in his jean overalls, and Lize in 
her red calico gown. 

At the end of a mile, wl icli had been occupied in 
picking the few remaining berries which grew by 
the roadside, they burst out on the brow of a 
grassy knoll from which the little hamlet of Bear 
Camj) could be seen in the smoky distance. 

" I 'low 't a' n't more' 'n four miles futher," said 
Pete, and relapsed again into silence. 

It was a hard and dusty tramp for poor Lize, 
but she kept gazing at the deepening haze which 
hung over the "Bays," as if she saw in their dim 
outlines something of the uncertainty of life. 



1 64 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

Two hours later, as tliey trudged into the little 
cluster of houses which composed Bear Camp, their 
first thought was of the peanuts and then of the 
parson. Pete was wholly unconcerned as he 
munched peanuts and explained to the surprised 
parson his mission, and pointed to the two ages, 
twenty-two and nineteen, in the certificate which 
he had procured. Lize was a little tremulous at 
first, and was evidently glad when the two names, 
Peter William Larkim and Elizabeth Matilda 
Simons, were uttered in the same breath by the 
grave parson. 

Pete, with a frank appearance of generosity and 
a careless air, at once asked, " Wliat 's yer bill ? " 

The good parson, surprised and overjoyed, 
waived an answer, and simply remarked, " The law 
alloics me a dollar ; you may pay me what you 
like." 

'' Wa-a-1," said Pete, with honest sincerity and a 
thought of more peanuts, " ef the law 'lows ye a 
dollar, yere 's a half, an' thet'll make ye a dollar 'n 
a half. Much obleeged." 

The astonished parson could say nothing, as Mr. 
and Mrs. Larkim strode out through the open 
door and started on their " weddin' tower," as 
unconscious of the past as of the future. 

Late that afternoon, as the evening fogs came 
creeping up the eastern slope of Sheep mountain 
from the little lake at its foot, Pete and Lize were 
seen, weary and footsore, plodding up the rocky 
mountain road, often pausing to listen for the 
sound of Joe Green's rumbling logging team. 



PETE LABKIM. 1 65 

" It a'n't no use," said Pete at length. '* Joe '11 
come sure. I'm goin' ter wait. 

"All right," answered Lize, " I's willin'." 

Side by side they sat down on a rocky ledge, 
which seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the 
shadow of the mountain as the sun sank from 
sight. Both were too weary to talk much, and left 
each other to their own thoughts. As Lize sat 
looking at her own soiled calico, her thoughts 
were of the wonderful sights which she had seen 
on her " weddin' tower," and she exclaimed, — 

"Say, Pete, did ye see thet gal at the ' Bluff,' 
with the silk gown on ? Maw sez I kin hev one 
so7ne day.'''' 

"]S'aw," said Pete, "Ididnt see nothiu. But 
wa' n't thet dirt cheap, gittin' merred fer fifty 
cents?" 

Just then a long, continuous rumble came up 
from the darkness which had settled over Bear 
Camp. Pete and Lize started up at the sound, and 
sauntered into the road again. As Joe Green came 
around the sharp bend, they scrambled on to the 
low lumber wagon. 

" Whar ben ? " called Joe, above the noise. 
And as the team, carrying Pete and Lize back to 
the little shanty which to them was home, became 
more and more indistinct in the twilight, Pete's 
voice could be heard answering, " Down ter B'ar 
Camp, gittin' merred. On'l cost 's half a dollar." 

E. O. Grover '94. 



ALOTS^G THE CONNECTICUT. 



The cascades of Carolina and Georgia, or the 
vast caves of Kentucky, may excite our awe ; the 
lake-dotted wilds of the Adirondacks, the rugged 
peaks of the Rockies, or the Falls of Niagara, may 
fill us with amazement ; but naught stirs with deeper 
emotion than the silent grandeur of the beautiful 
valley of the Connecticut. Beside its smoothly 
gliding waters, which move majestically on amid 
Nature's smiling handiwork, securely crouched in 
some craggy nook, or restfully reclining on the 
sloping hillsides, many a poet and philosopher has 
lost himself in the great oblivion of thought, watch- 
ing its deep crystal mass roll oceanward. Here 
Nature is ever unfolding scene after scene and pict- 
ure after picture as evening follows upon morning 
and season upon season. 

The first flush of early dawn lights up the sur- 
rounding hilltops, and seems to instill life into the 
thick shrubbery which hangs over the dark waters. 
The full noonday sun gleams resplendent upon a 
glassy surface, causing yonder maple, the old 
wooden bridge, and the narrow, moss-girt isle to 
mirror themselves with perfect outline. The set- 
ting sun repeats with different coloring the pict- 




ALONG THE CONNECTICUT. 



ALONG THE CONNECTICUT. 1 67 

ures of the morning. Again the heights and west- 
ern horizon blush with crimson hues as the king 
of day seeks his couch among the hills, while shad- 
ows slowly gather in the quiet vale beneath. The 
stillness of evening, with the dark rushing waters, 
reverses the picture of noonday and imparts a calm 
solemnity to the scene. 

The green mantle of springtime, which spreads 
itself over the meadows, hillocks, and mountains, 
and the blossoming fields which slope gently down 
to the water's edge, form one of Nature's choicest 
views. It is then that the water rises on its banks, 
and the river's dimpled surface lures alike the stu- 
dent, the instructor, and the reverend doctor. It 
is then that the lover lazily skims his bark along 
the water's edge and admires with his fair one the 
beauty of his surroundings. It was then that the 
poet wrote, — 

*' No watery glades through richer valleys shine, 
Nor drinks the sea a lovelier wave than thine." 

Autumn, too, lends its scenic effect. Though the 
water flows on majestically in the same bed, and 
the river receives the same rippling streams, yet 
everything appears changed, and he who strolls 
along its banks witnesses new sights and is im- 
pressed with new thoughts. The wooded hillsides 
have donned a coat of variegated colors, the fields 
of grain along its banks wave their golden crests 
before the sharp blast, and the little songsters in 
the trees overhead accord with dying Nature and 
sing more plaintively. 



1 68 DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

Winter brings another change. In gentle flakes 
or by blasting storm the whole valley becomes 
robed in white. Strong fetters bind the water in 
its channel; every twig and slender spray is en- 
veloped in icy tracery; and from the cliffs, down 
whose steep sides the summer streams gushed 
murmurously, a thousand icicles glisten with re- 
flected light in the earliest beams of sunrise. 

Each of the various views, each mood of the 
changing seasons, brings pleasing recollections to 
the student of former days; and the student of the 
present cannot watch its eddying waters, or walk 
along its shaded banks, without imbibing some- 
thing of the grandeur of the hills, the beauty of 
the valley, and the majesty of the rolling river. 

J. H. Bartlett '5^. 



A DARTMOUTH REVERIE. 



I sat in my room in Dartmouth Hall waiting for 
the bell to ring. It was nearly five o'clock, and, 
having finished the preparation of my lesson, I was 
dozing. Without it was cold and stormy, and the 
sing of the falling snow on the panes as gusts of 
wind swept across the window made it all the more 
cozy and warm within. Sitting before the stove, 
comfortably ensconced in an easy chair, watching 
the light which shone through the glass from the 
ruddy coals, a peculiar drowsiness crept over me, 
and willingly I yielded to the pleasant warmth. 
Gradually, as I gazed at the glowing stove it faded 
from my sight. A cheerful, open fire-place took 
its place, on whose broad hearth the embers of a 
dying fire glowed. The remnants of a back-log 
now and then shot up a flickering blaze, from 
which shone streams of light that poured across 
floor and ceiling, magnifying and distorting the 
shadows about me into ghostly forms. 

I looked around. The beams overhead showed 
with unaccustomed nakedness, and the walls were 
bare of ornament, with the exception of one or 
two cheap wood cuts and a copy of what seemed to 
be college regulations. The only covering on the 



I/O DARTMOUTH SKETCHES. 

rough and unplaned floor was a liome-made rug of 
braided strips of cloth near the centre of the room. 
A table and two or three chairs completed the 
modest furnishings. Upon the table I could dimly 
see some books and a couple of candles. Suddenly 
there was a stamping on the stairs, the door opened, 
and two robust youths entered. One of them 
threw down an armful of wood, with which he 
replenished the dying fire, while the other placed 
in the corner of the room the axes he was carrying. 
Having lighted one of the candles, they hastened 
to warm themselves in the glow of the now roaring 
fire. By the added light I could plainly see the 
books on the table. There was a "Ward's Math- 
ematicks," which in the early days of the college 
was the text-book from "Arithmetick through 
Conick Sections;" a "Hammond's Algebra;" a 
"Caesar's Commentaries," and another old book 
without a title, but probably a Latin text of some 
classic author ; also a Greek Testament and a copy 
of " The Works of Zenophon." This last book had 
lost its cover, leaving bare the title-page in red 
and black, with "London MDCCL" printed across 
the bottom. These books, together with a Bible, 
black and thumb-marked from many years of con- 
stant use, comprised the entire library. 

One of the youths opened the "Ward's Math- 
ematicks" and began to read aloud, while the 
other ciphered. I listened as he read, — "A cun- 
ning servant agreed with a master (unskilled in 
numbers) to serve him eleven years without any 
other rew^ard for his service but the produce of 



A DARTMOUTH REVERIE. I?' 

one kernel of corn for the first year, and the prod- 
uct therefrom the second year, and so on from year 
to year until the end of the time, allowing the in- 
crease to be in a tenfold proportion. It is required 
to find the sum of the whole produce." He glanced 
at his companion, who was biting a bit of pencil. 
They both frowned, and seemed rather puzzled, 

when one of the msaid, '^' Well, we have got " 

At that moment there was a knock upon the door, 
and one of them "sung out" in a most natural 
manner, "Come in ! " I jumped to my feet ; the 
scene had vanished, and the vibrations of the last 
stroke of tlie bell were sounding through the room 
as I rushed out to recitation, slamming the door 
after me. 

W. H. Eollins '94. 



THE YALE OF TEMPE. 



Dear to the heart of the Dartmouth man is this 
bit of ancient Greece transplanted into the hurry 
and rush of a nineteenth century New World. 
There is not one of us but has wandered thither of 
a Sunday afternoon to seek the rest which only 
green fields and running brooks can give. To the 
weary soul the little valley seems the embodiment 
of peace. Within its borders quiet reigns supreme. 
In summer, grasses wave on the hillsides, and 
daisies lift their dew-bathed chalices to the warm 
kisses of the sun. The sedges by the brook nod in 
the breeze, while among them darts or hovers, 
poised in air, the dragon-fly, brillinnt in green and 
blue. Between the reeds the brook slips tranquilly 
along, and ever and anon widens into pools where 
cattle stand at noontide, or ripples over the shal- 
lows with a low murmuring, as if it whispered to 
the pebbles the sad story it heard one summer 
night ; then, forgetting its sorrows in the joy of 
present existence, dances along its channel like a 
child at play, while above it willows droop and 
thrushes sing their sweetest songs. 

In winter all sounds of life are hushed. Beneath 
its frost-wrought counterpane the brook is sleep- 



TBE VALE OF TEMPE. 173 

ing away the hours till the return of spring. 
Draped in spotless ermine, the valley seems a tem- 
ple meet for chaste Diana, its drifted snow her 
altars, and the white-clad trees the votaries at her 
shrine. One half expects to see approach from out 
some hidden nook the goddess herself, as in the 
olden time she is said to have appeared in classic 
Greece. 

But not in summer nor in winter does the little 
glen afford the most pleasant theme for the idle 
dreamer. Though above it bend no tropic skies, 
though no Olympus shadow nor Ossa guards it, yet 
in the spring time it is kissed by the first warm 
winds, the haunt of bird, and bee, and flower. Here 
first the pussy-willow — harbinger of spring^peeps 
from its downy nest ; and in the bosom of this 
vale the first violets blow. Responsive to the woo- 
ing of April sun and shower, the green upon its 
banks deepens apace and the bursting buds herald 
the coming of the oriole. The air is fragrant with 
the breath of apple blossoms. 

It might have been such a spot as this that 
inspired Lowell's ''Day in June." Other glens 
may possess more of scenic beauty, other vales sur- 
pass it in size and reputation, but to a son of Dart- 
mouth no scene can be fairer or more dear than the 
Vale of Tempe whether locked in winter's frost or 
bathed in the silver moonlight of a summer's night. 

B, A, Smalley '94. 



PASTELS. 



Ahead, the narrowing bridge is dimly seen 
through the pattering rain. Dark woods cover the 
bank on the left. At the right, the river is wind- 
ing low^ In the distance, the lights of the city 
and the draw of the bridge are distinctly seen in 
outline. A farmer boy is returning home from 
market. 

It is the close of a summer day. I have been sit- 
ting in the stern of an ocean steamer since we 
started from the landing, when the sun was high 
and friends were waving an adieu. Some negroes 
standing in a gangway are singing weird Southern 
songs. The great heart of the steamer is throb- 
bing, throbbing, and we are far, far out at sea. 

A neglected, grass-grown road winds among the 
ledges and the firs, and has led me to the summit 
of this hill. It is May, and the willows have put 
forth their fragrant blossoms, the elms give promise 
of coming leaves, and yonder in the meadow stands 
a wild cherry in full bloom. On every hand are 
hills, and far on the hazy liorizon stands a moun- 
tain against the summer sky. A soft, south wind 
sweeps up the hill, raising the grass into waves, 
and bears to me tlie sweet scent of the willows and 
an odor of the river's salt. 



PASTELS. 175 

I am down in the marsh to-day. The sky is one 
great cloud just ready to pour down oceans of rain. 
A slight breeze blows the long, yellow grass into 
waves, and turns up the backs of the willow leaves. 
The outlines of the pine, the locust, and the elm 
against the heavens are prettier to me than when 
skies are fair. The swallows are darting about me 
close to the ground. A cow-bell tinkles on the 
hillside. 

Alfred Bartlett '94. 



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